


In Loco Parentis

by PNGuin



Series: Dux Bellorum One-Shots [7]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood is Good With Kids, Alec is a baby whisperer, Alec is ridiculously adorable in this, Clary doesn't know how to hold a baby, Established Relationship, Everyone ships Malec, Good Grandmother Maryse Lightwood, Implied Violence Against Children, Insecure Alec Lightwood, M/M, Magnus Bane Loves Alec Lightwood, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Warlock Children - Freeform, Warlock Orphanage, Werewolf Children, lightwood-bane family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-24 10:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17702351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PNGuin/pseuds/PNGuin
Summary: Five times Alec surprises someone by being good with kids, and one time no one is surprised at all.AKA I just wanted an excuse to write adorable little snippets of Alec being really good with kids.





	1. Magnus

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite headcanons of all time is that Alec is just really really fantastic with kids (although is it really a headcanon? he's had some great interactions with Madzie). And, because I have zero impulse control, this whole idea came into existence. Yes. It really is just 25,000 words of Alec being great with kids.
> 
> You're welcome.
> 
> Title translates to "in place of a parent."

**I. Magnus**

 

Magnus has never been a huge fan of children, as a general rule of thumb. There isn’t really any particular reason why, as far as Magnus is able to understand. Perhaps it is because he fears children; fears how they always grow far too quickly, how swiftly their lives change, how they always succumb to Time for the sake of either _maturity_ or _death_. Perhaps Magnus dislikes them for how they represent every right that has been denied to him; they remind him of his own horrific childhood, of how he can never father a child and create his own family, of how he’s cursed to look eternally youthful but without the blessed ignorance of actually being young.

Or, perhaps, it is simply because Magnus does not interact with them much. The vast majority of his life has been dominated by an admittedly obscene amount of hedonism: drugs, sex, alcohol, more sex, gambling, and also lots of sex. And while Magnus may have been morally depraved for those years, even he had been reasonable enough to avoid children for the sake of sparing them from his own lifestyle. More recently, he has spent the last century or so of his life taking a fatherly role for various downworlders, but those have unanimously been surly teenagers or young adults – mere infants to a warlock, but not honest to Lilith _children_.

Clarissa Fairchild is the first child Magnus has actually watched grow up, and even that had been more of a series of distant observations. He had adopted the role of a weird magical uncle – a warlock godfather, if you would – for the young girl, and he had cared for her whenever she had fallen under his protection. But their interactions had been fleeting, as all mortal interactions are to an immortal, and Magnus had never really learned much from the experience.

It isn’t as if Magnus _hates_ children. He would never _dare_ be cruel – or even merely rude – to a child, and he has an ingrained instinct and strict moral code that is fiercely protective of them. He also has a tendency to coo over their cherubic faces and entertain their childish whims of fun magic tricks or sugary snacks. Magnus delights in their laughter and their jokes and their endless curiosity of the world; they always make him feel so invigorated and _young_ compared to the jaded years of his eternal life. But beyond the fondness and indulgence, Magnus doesn’t exactly know _how_ to interact with children. He doesn’t understand their games, or their thought processes, or (half the time) what they are even trying to say.

As such, Magnus has spent the entirety of his considerable life at a respectable distance from children. He will smile at them and pat their heads, he will perform silly little spells to amuse them, and he will do everything in his power to protect them. But he often avoids interacting with them, for all intents and purposes.

But this is a bit of a special circumstance; one that warrants Magnus dropping his wary distance of children.

An old acquaintance of his, Edith Vermillion, has called upon him for help. Not as the High Warlock, but simply as a friend – which is always a bit of a warning sign, as far as Magnus’ experience goes. He had met Edith back in the early 1930s, when Magnus had still been recently promoted to the position of High Warlock. Edith had been attempting to open one of the first warlock orphanages, and Magnus had supplied the funding necessary to set it up. And had also maybe bribed and manipulated some mundane and Shadow World law enforcers. And had covered up some less than legal situations. But that had been nearly a century ago – clearly, well beyond any statutes of limitation – and it isn’t as if anyone has ever called him out on it, so what does it really matter?

Magnus has probably dished out a good couple million dollars on the establishment as a whole, and he continuously revamps the wards around the old brownstone. Edith always offers to try and pay back what she refers to as _loans_ , but the only payment Magnus ever accepts is homemade meals and playtime with the kids. There are never very many children at the orphanage at one time – warlocks are notoriously slow when it comes to population growth – but it is rewarding to know that those children don’t have to face the abuse and trauma that Magnus (and countless other warlocks) had suffered through.

But now there is a bit of a dilemma. The entire purpose of Magnus’ efforts to ward and fund the orphanage is to keep people away. _Especially shadowhunters_. And yet here Magnus is, walking down the street towards the concealed orphanage with one such shadowhunter.

Edith is going to _kill_ him.

In Magnus’ defense, it isn’t as if he had _planned_ on dragging Alec along with him on his errands. They had been getting lunch together at some local Mediterranean deli when Magnus’ phone had suddenly erupted with people demanding all sorts of help. Dagmar had needed a case of fresh acromantula venom – which of course is only readily stocked in _one specific shop_ in Campos do Jordão, Brazil – and Mikhail had needed instructions on how to brew a high-level memory potion – _without_ blowing up his apartment this time – and then Edith had called citing that the wards had been flagging long before they were scheduled for an update. And, damn it all, between the hunt for Valentine and the drama consistently plaguing their lives, Magnus has hardly spent any time with his darling, gorgeous boyfriend. It’s a tragedy of the worst sort.

And Alec had looked so painfully _hopeful_ and _excited_ at the simple prospect of running boring ass errands with Magnus that the warlock hadn’t had the heart to tell him no. He had been as eager as a particularly loyal golden retriever, and it had been endearing enough that Magnus had caved immediately. Alec had managed to charm the ever-stoic Arsenio by politely inquiring about all the ingredients in the old warlock’s hut in Brazil, and had helped put out _yet another fire_ in Mikhail’s apartment, and Magnus sincerely believes that bringing Alec to the orphanage will end in a similarly positive way.

Standing before the unassuming brownstone, however, Alec seems far less confident than Magnus. He rubs at his neck, ducking his head slightly and hunching in on himself. It’s a habit of Alec’s that Magnus had quickly picked up on, back before they had even started a relationship, back when Alec had still been scared and alone and closeted. Magnus has always found it an odd mixture of endearing and heartbreaking how easily the towering shadowhunter can make himself seem so _small_ , that contrast between a warrior’s body and a pacifist’s heart.

“Magnus, what if- is this- are you sure this is okay?” Alec starts, hesitating and stumbling over his words.

Magnus has noticed – with a profound feeling of pride – the stuttering improve over the two months they have been ( _officially_ ) dating. Gradually, and with setbacks whenever they’re in crowded public areas or in the Institute or in other situations Alec struggles with, but Magnus has watched the young man steadily grow comfortable in his own skin; has watched the tension in his shoulders drip away, has watched the laughter lines become more pronounced, has watched the confidence in his casual touches steadily improve.

It hurts Magnus’ heart to now see him hesitating, even if it is for an admittedly fragile situation. He wants to rest a hand on Alec’s arm, but thinks better of it when he spots the tension in Alec’s posture, and covers up the near miss by idly waving his hands in the air. “Alexander, I appreciate your concern but I assure you that everything is fine. We won’t stay too long, and you don’t have to be around the kids if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“What?” Alec blurts out, turning to face Magnus with a frown marring his gorgeous features. Magnus feels a soul-deep yearning to pull him closer and kiss the look right off, but he holds himself back for fear of making an already anxious Alec even _more_ anxious. “Magnus, that’s not- _I’m_ not uncomfortable around the kids. But I just- I don’t want to, I don’t know, worry or scare your friend or any of the kids. I know that I’m not – since I’m a shadowhunter, I’m not-” his voice is climbing higher, his words stumbling together more and more the longer Alec lets his concern climb.

“Hey, hey,” Magnus murmurs. “You don’t have to worry about that. I trust you, Alexander. And Edith trusts my judgment.”

He wants, more than anything, to wrap his arms around his boyfriend and hug the poor man for several hours. Part of that ‘cuddle therapy’ Magnus had wanted to prescribe to Alec as soon as the warlock had found out just how touch-starved Alec is. He allows himself the meager compromise of resting his hands lightly on Alec’s shoulders; but it’s Alec who inches closer and invades Magnus’ personal space, settling his hands carefully at Magnus’ elbows and tugging ever so gently. Magnus goes, of course, until he can feel the pressure of Alec’s chest against his own with every breath and the heat of Alec’s body even through the layers of their winter clothing.

Alec’s touch is still so hesitant that Magnus cherishes every single time Alec reaches out for him. Magnus’ eyes slip closed of their own accord and he takes in a deep breath that smells of bowstring wax, wood polish, leather, and the faded whiff of demon ichor. It should be a disconcerting reminder of the warrior, of the _shadowhunter_ , that Alec is; instead, it makes Magnus feel safe and at home.

Alec still doesn’t seem convinced, his eyebrows furrowed and deep lines of worry creasing his forehead. Magnus risks raising his hand to cup Alec’s cheek, stroking a gloved thumb over the worried wrinkles to try and soothe them, and is blessedly rewarded when Alec lets himself lean into the touch. Magnus’ heart is so full that he fears it will actually burst in his chest, and he tries valiantly to beat back the encroaching emotions by reminding himself that he and Alec have been dating for a mere _two months_. There is absolutely no way that Magnus can allow himself to fall so embarrassingly head-over-heels in love in such a short time.

Magnus could stay here, on the stoop of an old historic brownstone in the middle of December, just gazing into Alec’s beautiful hazel eyes for centuries. In fact, he’s so absorbed in everything _Alexander_ that he doesn’t even notice the orphanage’s front door opening. A sharp clearing of someone’s throat abruptly cuts into their private little bubble of existence, effectively popping the blissful atmosphere around them.

Alec jerks back as if he’s been electrocuted, skittering nearly a full foot away in his frantic haste to re-establish a _respectful_ distance between them. The shadowhunter pulls back his arms until he is no longer even slightly touching Magnus, and he folds his hands behind his back as he is so wont to do; his head ducks down, an alluring blush on his cheeks – either from embarrassment or the cold, Magnus doesn’t know. The combination of his messy, almost-curly hair and his bashful expression makes him look like a chastised boy, regardless of how tall and broad he may be.

Magnus has no such qualms to being caught red-handed. He merely huffs an aggrieved sigh at the loss of his boyfriend’s nearness and turns an affronted glare in the door’s direction. There, standing with crossed arms and a withering grimace, is Edith Vermillion. She is a relatively young warlock, having only just passed her first century, but one wouldn’t be able to tell thanks to her grandmotherly charm. That’s the thing with warlocks. They are all immortal, but it is often a toss-up when it comes to _how old_ they will look for eternity. Some stay baby-faced, others settle around middle age, others still appear to be just as old and jaded as their souls really are. (Magnus himself has always been quite lucky for appearing to be in his mid-30s. Old enough to get away with all the things he wants to do, young enough to still look hot doing those things.)

“Magnus,” Edith calls, voice sharp and quite obviously enraged. “You brought a _shadowhunter_ here?” Her dark eyes settle heavily on Alec, and the young man shrinks back further under her fury.

To see such vehement hatred directed toward _Alec_ , who has done no wrong, does nothing less than incense Magnus’ own anger. Magnus knows – far better than many others ever possibly could – just how horrific and terrible shadowhunters are capable of being. But Alexander is _nothing_ like those shadowhunters. To place the blame of past generations upon Alec’s shoulders is far too akin to how the Clave persecutes warlocks for their demonic parentage, and it makes Magnus’ blood boil.

He glances at Alec, now roughly a foot to his side, hunkered down in on himself, and sees the shadowhunter somberly raise his eyes and open his mouth. Magnus knows, without a doubt, that he’s about to apologize and offer to leave. Dread settles heavy in Magnus’ stomach and fire burns through his veins. He doesn’t really want to analyze the significance of the feeling, so he reacts before Alec can.

Magnus loops his arm through Alec’s and inches close enough that their sides are pressed together. “I brought my _boyfriend_ , Edith,” he responds curtly. “And if you have a problem with that then we will leave.” One of the benefits of being the High Warlock. It’s easy to hold his power over people when necessary.

Edith pinches her lips into a sour expression that contradicts the typically genial disposition of the warlock. But she huffs out a breath and turns to let them into the building. Alec’s shoulders tense further, and yet he doesn’t pull away from Magnus as they step through the threshold. It’s a minor thing, but it makes a spark of warmth nestle in Magnus’ heart.

The building, although old even when Edith had first acquired it, has been remarkably well-preserved. One of the many perks of magic. The foyer is narrow but tall, decked out with a beautiful chandelier and the original ostentatious flooring and walls. But that is where all pretentious decoration ends. Unlike most warlocks, Edith has no desire for displaying her wealth and treasures. Or, perhaps she is, and it’s simply the wall of picture frames detailing every warlock child that has passed through the orphanage that are her treasures.

They stop in the foyer long enough to remove their various coats and winter gear, and Magnus notices Alec taking a fortifying breath. It’s an action that Magnus is familiar with, and one that thrills him to the tips of his toes every time he sees it. That little heave of breath always heralds one of the moments in which Alec makes up his mind on something and puts forth the effort to make his decisions into reality. It had happened at the wedding-that-wasn’t, when they had decided to pursue a relationship, and now when Alec is confronting Edith.

“My name is Alec Lightwood,” he introduces himself, politely holding out a hand.

Edith turns her sharp eyes on the shadowhunter and sniffs haughtily. “Yes, I know,” she responds, short and snippy, and withholding her hand in a way that makes Magnus feel slighted _for_ Alexander. It reminds Magnus far too uncomfortably of how shadowhunters used to refuse such basic pleasantries to himself, of how they used to throw out the plates after downworlders had eaten from them, of the sidelong glances and mocking taunts nonchalantly tossed his way. Magnus very nearly lets his frustration boil over at that point.

Luckily, Alec is far more composed in the face of such heavy-handed suspicion. The towering man slowly retracts his hand and takes another deep breath, and Magnus resolves himself to step back and let Alec handle the situation. As much as Magnus feels the need to defend his boyfriend, he can understand the significance of Alec and Edith’s tense interaction, and there is that always growing sense of pride blooming in Magnus’ chest when Alec chooses to politely defer rather than become offended.

“Right, of course you do,” Alec nods, with a hint of self-deprecation. It’s all too common for members of the Shadow World to know all about _Magnus Bane and Alec Lightwood_. Hell, even the High Warlock of Lhasa sent Magnus a fire message once she heard gossip about the infamous wedding-that-wasn’t. “I just wanted to say that I really respect what you’ve done by helping these children. I’m glad that they have a safe home here.”

That is one of the gloriously refreshing things about Alexander. He is quite literally shit at lying; just the thought of lying makes his stuttering increase tenfold. So when Alec speaks candidly it is almost guaranteed that every word is utterly honest. It’s something that makes Magnus’ heart ache, but it seems to have little effect on the hard-assed Edith.

Her glare eases minimally, just the slightest difference that Magnus only notices because he’s searching for it, and the warlock inclines her head to show that she heard and understood the comment. But she makes no move to grant any other response to it and ultimately turns to face Magnus, completely ignoring the shadowhunter beside him.

“I need you to strengthen the wards,” Edith asks, straight into business.

It’s always that way with people. Even those that Magnus considers friends. Always _demanding_ something. It’s dreadfully jading to his sensibilities. Magnus is already in a shit mood from weeks of nonstop work and little sleep, and it has only gotten worse due to his precious few hours with Alec being interrupted with running silly little errands for others. His skin crawls, his magic itching for a chance to let loose, but he bites back the sensation and holds his breath until the tumultuous waves of his power calm into a simmer.

“I just retouched the wards six months ago,” Magnus comments, letting his voice wilt into an unaffected air with hopes that it will make his frustration dissipate. “They shouldn’t need to be strengthened for another year, at least.”

“Well, clearly _something_ has affected their viability,” Edith retorts with a bite to her tone. “With things going as they have been, it would be best to have the wards in top condition, lest any _unwanted intruders_ get past,” she mutters, casting a far too obvious side-eye in Alec’s direction.

“Of course, Edith,” Magnus nods along. He has to work his jaw open so that he doesn’t grind his teeth into useless nubs. It’s a struggle just to keep the tight smile fixed upon his features. “Shall we?” he gestures towards the hallway, already knowing exactly where to go in order to repair the wards.

Edith doesn’t move. “The shadowhunter stays here,” she declares coldly, glaring outright at an increasingly nervous Alec. “It wouldn’t do to have one of them know where the nodes are.”

Magnus is _furious_. Not only is it erroneous to assume that Alec has the faintest notion of magical theory – let alone something as advanced as ward nodes, where layers of magic interact – but it’s an absolute insult to both of them to insinuate that Alec would ever _do_ something with that knowledge. Especially something that would harm innocent children.

Quite frankly, if Edith were not a dear friend of Magnus’, and were she not also the loving patron of a handful of unfortunate warlock children, Magnus would _snap_. He would spit out some insult in her direction and refuse her demand for help, given her foul attitude and nasty tone. As it is, Magnus forcibly reigns his temper in, biting down on his tongue until he tastes the iron tang of blood. He stands seething in anger, but plasters an amicable smile across his face nevertheless. His cheeks feel like they’re cracking from the strain.

Magnus has spent centuries hiding his emotions behind a mask. It’s a skill he had first learned from his mother – long, long ago in a time that he hardly even remembers – and it’s a skill that had been brutally reinforced by his step-father, and his biological father, and the slew of people who had waltzed into his life, trampled on his heart, and promptly left him. Even those closest to him – Catarina and Raphael – occasionally struggle to see past the carefully constructed walls that Magnus has painstakingly built.

Alec, of course, exists entirely beyond such trivial difficulties. He sees past Magnus’ walls as if he has x-ray vision, or as if there are no walls even there to begin with. He inches closer to Magnus, delicately resting a feather-light touch to the small of his back. Enough pressure that Magnus is reminded of his presence, but gentle enough that it does not threaten to further tighten the tension in his shoulders.

“Magnus,” Alec calls. It’s Magnus’ own siren song, and he’s helpless to resist. The warlock abandons his deepening glare in Edith’s direction, and instead focuses all his attention on his darling Alexander. “It’s fine,” the shadowhunter assures him, “I’ll just stay here. It’s not a big deal.”

It is. Perhaps not to Alec, but it is to Magnus. And yet, that imploring look deep within Alec’s beautiful hazel eyes lets some of the irritation seep out of Magnus’ bones. Magnus finds himself nodding, giving in to Alec’s request with hardly even a second thought. He grudgingly turns back to Edith, allows himself to cast an unhappy frown in her direction, and then indicates for her to follow him to the first node.

Magnus forces himself to look back only once, checking on Alec even as the nephilim settles on some uncomfortable bench, before ultimately turning down a hallway and losing sight of his boyfriend. Edith’s silent presence at his side prickles against Magnus’ frayed nerves; as much as he cares for the children, all he wants is to return to his loft and cuddle with his wonderful boyfriend on his couch.

He focuses entirely on the familiar layers of magic that encapsulate the building like an intricate network of blankets. Magic isn’t typically something that can be _seen_ , per se. Some warlocks claim to have an affinity for seeing the interweaving of magic in ley lines, but Magnus usually finds those people to be of the exceptionally erratic persuasion. As far as Magnus understands it (which, he will dare to claim, is a considerable amount), magic is something that is _felt_. He can sense the tingling of it at the base of his spine, spreading throughout all his veins like his blood, and he can follow the pull of the sensation along the networks of the wards until he reaches the closest intersection.

The node is still intact, still holding the strands of magic in place so that it settles correctly around the lay of the building. And yet it’s not nearly as sturdy as Magnus had ensured several months ago. There is an almost fraying about the edges, a disintegrating junction between multiple layers, the incessant wearing down of an otherwise intricately woven quilt.

Magnus is no amateur when it comes to magic. Even if he’s not the oldest warlock – or, even, considered truly _old_ for an immortal – his magical knowledge and capabilities are renowned. And for good reason. Magnus is _damn good_ at his job. He knows wards, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that some inside force has damaged the integrity of his work.

Edith has so far been rather silent in their steady journey around the building. Magnus has felt her disapproving glare on his back the entire way, as if she’s trying to cow him by channeling her inner disgruntled grandmother. The effect is rather lessened by the fact that Magnus is several times her age, and also by the fact that Magnus simply doesn’t _care_ what Edith has to say about his lifestyle.

“Someone has managed to locate the ward nodes and has been wearing them down,” Magnus concludes, focused more on painstakingly picking apart the frayed ends and knitting them back together.

“Who has been targeting the orphanage?” Edith responds, voice fierce like that of a mother bear.

Magnus shakes his head. “It’s from the inside,” he mentions. “And considering the only people that live here are you and the kids, and given the amateur technique used, I believe one of the children picked up on the juncture point and decided to test out their magic. An inconvenience, but ultimately harmless.”

He finishes up, and makes to turn back in the direction of where Alec is patiently waiting for him, when Edith claps a hand to his shoulder and stops his movement. Her eyes meet his, and there’s a coldness there that unsettles him and makes his skin prickle.

“What the hell are you thinking, Magnus?” she hisses out, voice quiet and irritated. “Of all the ill-advised flings you’ve gotten yourself into, a _shadowhunter_ – a _Lightwood,_ nonetheless – is most definitely the _worst_!”

Magnus whirls on the spot and looms over Edith, getting in her face and all but _growling._ He’s livid, his blood boils with the heat of Edom and he wants to scream in her face, but he swallows the fury and ensures that his voice is no louder than a hoarse – but no less violent – whisper-shout. “How _dare_ you insult Alec without even _knowing_ him? You know _nothing_ of my personal life, nor do you know a single damn thing about Alec’s! Why can’t you trust my judgment on this?”

“Trust your judgment?” Edith scoffs, and the sound grates right over Magnus’ horrifically frayed nerves. “You hardly have a good track record, Magnus. You always get blinded by your emotions. What about _Camille_?”

 _“Don’t.”_ Magnus’ voice is utterly frozen, a single shard of ice that pierces the quiet around them. “Don’t you _ever_ compare Alec to that _bitch_.” He’s vibrating with rage, and agony, and frustration, because why can’t anyone just accept him and Alec? Why can’t they just be left to their own devices, free from the cruel judgment of the outside world? Why does everyone think that they have a right to an opinion on their relationship? Magnus is just _exhausted_.

He wonders, idly and a bit desperately, if this is how Alec felt at the wedding-that-wasn’t, if it’s how Alec feels every day he steps into the Institute and faces silent ridicule. Alec has remained strong in the face of such prejudice. Magnus can as well, at least for Alec’s sake.

“Anyway, I’ve finished the job,” he continues coolly, not giving any sanction to his acquaintance. “Alec and I will be on our way.”

Edith seems thoroughly contrite as Magnus leads them back towards the foyer of the building. However, both of them perk up once they reach the front door and find the bench conspicuously empty. For a terrifying split-second, Magnus’ first thought is that Alec has been hurt or taken in some manner, before his rationality catches up with his rabbiting heart and knocks some sense back into him.

His companion, on the other hand, is filled with a renewed sense of righteous fury. She whirls on Magnus, face contorted in her anger. “ _Where is he?”_ she growls. “He was supposed to stay _right here_!”

Magnus doesn’t even try to stop himself from rolling his eyes hard enough that it almost hurts. “Perhaps he had to use the restroom, Edith,” he defends with a nonchalant shrug.

Before Edith can retaliate like she so clearly wants to, the distinct sound of children screaming filters in from the back door. They both immediately turn in that direction, bodies and magic tensed in preparation for a fight, until the noise shifts just enough that they can recognize it as the sounds of children screaming in _delight_ , as they are so often wont to do. Magnus heaves a great big sigh of relief, letting the fear eke out of his body. Beside him, Edith relaxes only marginally, far more intent on marching towards the open back door and towards the clamor of unruly kids.

Another benefit of magic is that the backyard of the building is both larger and far warmer than it otherwise would be in a New York winter. It’s a charming little courtyard that is a comfortable ambient temperature all year round, and that has enough paved area to provide the kids with room for four square and jump rope. As Magnus and Edith draw closer to the door, the rhythmic tapping of a jump rope and the joyous singing of kids filters through. Magnus doesn’t recognize the song, but he knows a jump rope rhyme when he hears one.

_Down in the valley where the green grass grows_   
_There sat Alec as pretty as a rose_   
_He sang so high, he sang so sweet_   
_Along came Magnus and kissed him on the cheek_   
_How many kisses did he get?_

And, much to Magnus’ utter astonishment, it’s to the commotion of children counting that he steps outside and sees the most profoundly unexpected sight he has ever witnessed. There’s Alec. Jumping rope. With a handful of warlock kids. Not just _any_ jumping rope. Oh no, Alexander Gideon Lightwood is double-dutching with warlock children while they merrily sing about _how many kisses Magnus is going to give him._

A lot. That’s the answer.

Magnus’ heart swells until he feels fit to bursting. His chest _aches_ enough that he brings a hand up to rest on his heart; he can feel it thudding against his ribs, can hear the blood pounding in his ears. The world melts away until all Magnus can see is _Alec_ , smiling widely as he skips along to the song. There’s a little girl in his arms, a toddler with long braids that smack him in the face with every hop, and clinging to his back is a boy only slightly older. Neither child is old enough to successfully jump rope, and they would have instead been left out of the older children’s games. But they aren’t. They’re nestled there, safely in Alec’s arms. He handles them with such gentleness, such tenderness, such _absolute compassion_ that Magnus feels tears spring to his eyes.

Of course, Alec chooses that very second to glance up and notice the two adult warlocks standing just beyond the threshold of the door, watching him with equally gob-smacked expressions. He immediately stumbles to an abrupt halt, exceedingly careful to keep the two children safely in his grasp, and effortlessly throwing up an arm to stop the jump ropes before they can hit the two toddlers under his care. The shadowhunter’s face deepens into a furious shade of red, one that rapidly spreads from his ear tips down past the collar of his shirt and enflames his entire being. Alec ducks his head sheepishly, looking for all the world like he’s seconds away from death via embarrassment, but one look at the madly giggling kids around him has the tension seeping out of his bones. His composure cracks, until he’s laughing alongside the gaggle of eager warlock children clustered around him like moths drawn to a brilliant flame.

Magnus can’t help but remember the countless innocent warlock children he has seen persecuted and hunted down by shadowhunters in his lifetime. He can’t help but recall the screaming of children, the wailing of mothers, the cruelty of the nephilim. There’s none of that present in the orphanage’s courtyard. It’s a sanctuary to such horrors of the world, a refuge where innocent warlock children can play jump rope with a shadowhunter – a _Lightwood_ – of all things.

Magnus looks at Alec and, for the very first time in his life, he sees what the angels’ grace must truly be. Alec is everything that the nephilim should be, everything that they have the potential to be. He is beauty, and joy, and compassion; he is integrity, and justice, and loyalty; he is humility, and earnestness, and honesty; he is _love_.

_Magnus Bane loves Alexander Gideon Lightwood._

He loves him.

What a beautiful thing that is.

“Magnus!” several excitable children yell, before they rush over and collide with his legs. He nearly buckles under the impact, but it’s the sound of Alec’s carefree, _joyous_ laughter that truly makes his knees weak.

The kids don’t stay enthralled with his arrival for very long, as they quickly retreat back to Alec’s side. Magnus can’t even blame them for the betrayal; he, too, is drawn to Alec. There are multiple children hanging off of the shadowhunter’s shoulders and arms as if he’s some impossibly tall, runed up jungle gym. That certainly seems to be what the children think, as they readily gravitate towards Alec, begging for piggyback rides and to be tossed in the air. They grab at his hands and tug him every which way, climbing up his legs, pulling on his jacket, a few hands even yanking at his hair in their excitement. The immature magic of young warlocks sparks in the air, harmless little bolts of magic skittering over skin and fizzling out like sparklers. Most of it centers on Alec, dancing in the air around him as the kids eagerly cling to him.

And Alec seems so utterly at ease among them, more at ease than Magnus has ever seen him outside of the loft. He gently moves whichever way they carelessly tug him, he laughs at the ticklish sensation of magic flickering over him. There’s no fear or discomfort or worry lining his face. Instead, there’s gentle wonder and a glorious smile and a brilliant blush settled graciously over his features.

Magnus _loves_ him.

Alec cautiously extricates himself from the gaggle of children swarming him and tiptoes closer to Magnus and Edith. The children inexplicably follow him, reminiscent of little ducklings that have imprinted upon their new shadowhunter friend. Several kids are clinging to Alec like limpets, another few hitching a ride on his legs. Alec is holding a total of five kids – ranging from a toddler who can barely walk to a twelve-year-old boy who is the eldest of the lot – and he makes it all look so _easy_ , as if Alec Lightwood was _born_ to carry children around.

It is undeniably one of the most heartwarmingly attractive things Magnus has ever seen in the entirety of his life.

The shadowhunter ducks his head once he finally reaches the two older warlocks, and Magnus knows he would rub his neck in embarrassment if not for the kids he’s currently holding. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes sincerely. “I know I should have stayed in the foyer, but I heard Penny start crying and I had to do _something_ ,” he explains worriedly, gesturing to the toddler girl that has her chubby little arms wrapped around his neck.

Said child holds out one of her legs, where a nasty scrape mars her knee. “I fell,” she explains shortly. “Alec couldn’t heal it ‘cause he doesn’t have magic, but he kissed it and now it’s all better!” Penny tosses her arms in the air with a joyful abandon, and Alec turns red enough that Magnus fears he might faint. Magnus _would_ step in to help alleviate the poor man’s embarrassment, but he’s enjoying this whole situation _far_ too much.

“Grandma!” one of the children – the eldest, a preteen boy that Magnus vaguely remembers as being exceptionally surly last time he visited – calls over the ruckus. He’s tossed over Alec’s shoulder, looking for all the world like a sack of potatoes, but one that is giggling madly. “Alec is _so cool!”_ the boy cheers. “Can he come visit us more often? Please, Grandma!”

The boy’s begging is, of course, promptly added to by a chorus of other children crying out _‘please’_ all while Alec stands there looking like he would very much prefer to disappear.

Edith’s entire demeanor seems to soften in light of the unprecedented scene before her, until she finally resembles the kind woman that Magnus befriended long ago. “If that is alright with Alec, then he is welcome to visit whenever he would like,” she decides, to the resounding cheers of the kids.

For the rest of the day, Magnus doesn’t really get any time to reflect on his revelations, as both he and Alexander are roped into spending the rest of the afternoon at the orphanage, and even eating dinner with the ragtag little family. Alec is far too preoccupied with giving piggyback rides, and reading books, and swinging on the jungle gym to really spend time with Magnus. But the warlock doesn’t mind, not one bit, as the day gives him plenty of opportunities to watch Alec interact with the kids and feel his heart ache with such a profound love.

His heart is nearly exhausted from all the hard work it’s been doing when they are finally released from the orphanage. They stand side by side on the stoop, wrapped up in their winter coats, pressed close together to evade the chill. Alec’s face is outlined by a nearby streetlamp, and Magnus can’t help but wax poetic about it in the sanctuary of his own mind.

Before the words can tumble out past his lips and ultimately embarrass him, Magnus grabs Alec by the lapels of his coat and tugs the young man closer, melding their lips together in a fierce kiss. It takes a second for Alec to catch up with the sudden movement, but then he’s sinking into Magnus’ embrace, bringing his hands up to rest on the warlock’s waist.

They finally pull apart when they need to breathe. Magnus slides his hands up Alec’s neck and rests them on the shadowhunter’s cheeks, leaning their foreheads against each other and letting their breath fog up the air between them. Alec keeps his eyes closed, reveling in the quiet peace that exists between them. Eventually, those beautiful hazel eyes blink open and Magnus feels himself fall into their depths.

“What was that for?” Alec finally murmurs, voice hushed so as to not disturb the quiet that blankets them like fresh snow.

A grin tugs at Magnus’ lips. “One,” he counts. “How many kisses did the kids count when you were jumping rope? Thirteen, was it?” he hums teasingly.

Predictably, and rather adorably, Alec blushes. “I don’t think I could survive another twelve more kisses like that,” he admits with a slight chuckle.

“You should’ve thought of that before being so good at _jumping rope,_ ” Magnus teases. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that it was one of your hidden talents?” he muses as they link hands and begin walking down the street.

Alec shrugs, although it’s obvious by the pink rushing down his neck that he’s still embarrassed by the whole affair. “You never asked?” he suggests helplessly.

Magnus laughs, but can’t stop the other question lingering in his head. “I also never knew that you were so good with kids,” he mentions casually.

Again, the shadowhunter shrugs and brings his free hand up to rub at his neck. “Yeah, I guess I’ve always liked kids. Maybe it’s because I spent so much time helping raise my siblings, or maybe it’s because they don’t really have all the crazy expectations that adults do. I don’t know. But kids just make me happy, I guess,” he explains nervously.

There’s a brightness to Alec’s eyes, a warmth that Magnus has been seeing more and more lately. A fragile little light that seems to be nurtured the longer they are together, the more time Alec spends outside of the Institute and instead learning to enjoy his own life. Magnus treasures that light; he wants to cup it in his hands and keep it warm for all eternity. Idly, hopelessly, _desperately_ he wishes that the light is that same all-encompassing feeling of _love_ that Magnus has finally realized. He wonders if Alec feels the same.

Before his mind can follow that potentially dangerous train of thought, his boyfriend stumbles to a halt beside him, their linked hands ensuring that Magnus is also brought to an abrupt stop.

“Magnus!” Alec nearly shouts, sounding almost distraught.

Immediately, Magnus steps closer and looks to see what’s wrong, but nothing apparent jumps out at him.

“We only have two weeks to get Christmas presents for _seven kids_! We _have_ to get the coolest presents we can, I refuse to be some lame surrogate uncle to gets _socks_ for kids!”

Already, Alec is dragging him in the direction of a nearby toy store while Magnus throws his head back and laughs. His breath fogs in the air, dispersing out into existence just as love seems to seep out of every pore of his body. Magnus willingly follows Alec down the street. Magnus would willingly follow Alec anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I really just make Alec double dutch with a bunch of warlock children? You bet your butts I did.
> 
> (Fun tidbit: the reason Alec is so good at it is because he, Jace, and Izzy used to sneak out of the Institute and challenge local mundane children to double-dutch-offs and no one can tell me otherwise.)
> 
> Don't expect any of the other chapters to be nearly this long. It's just because it's Magnus' POV and I have absolutely no control over him. So he gets extra long chapters.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this! Please leave me a kudos or a comment!
> 
> ~PNGuin


	2. Luke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of you guys have asked about the next installment for the main series, Dux Bellorum. I assure you that I am, in fact, currently working on it. However, I am a slow writer when it comes to longer, more thought-out chapter fics, so I'll be trying to consistently upload one-shots and short stories to tide you guys over until I post the next sequel.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me!

**II. Luke**

It’s a full moon.

Luke isn’t terribly worried about it; he hasn’t wolfed out on a full moon without complete control in years – excluding immediately after Jocelyn’s death – and he doesn’t really think he runs the threat of it now. Perhaps, given everything that’s going on, he should be more worried than he is. Between the Clave’s continued fuckery, Valentine’s resurgence, Jocelyn’s death, and Clary and Simon’s involvement in the Shadow World, Luke doesn’t think he’s _ever_ been as stressed out as he is. Perhaps it’s only a matter of time before all of it weighs down on him enough for the tension to _snap_ , for his control to wear away, for the wolf inside him to take over and lash out.

Each full moon is always a visceral reminder of just how tenuous his hold on sanity is. How easy it would be to slip under and let far darker impulses sweep himself away. He knows that he won’t allow it to happen, but it is a sobering thought nevertheless, and it’s a thought that drives him to hunker down in one of the retro vinyl booths at the Jade Wolf. He’s surrounded by the cloying scent of _pack_ and the rowdy chatter of wolves on a full moon night and the warmth that comes from so many bodies packed into such a small area.

There’s a common misconception in the Clave that werewolves gathering together on a full moon results in an increased likelihood of uncontrollable turnings. Luke himself used to believe such a myth, had heard it from his parents and the Academy and his fellow Circle members. He knows now what an absolute lie such claims are; while wolf tempers certainly do run a bit hotter on a full moon, there is something about being around the members of his pack that soothes the anxiety and restlessness rattling around inside him. So long as a pack’s alpha can keep their cool and ease any tensions amongst the pack, spending a full moon night together is preferable to spending it alone.

Luke likes to think that he’s one such alpha. He tries to be, at the very least. And it has, so far, worked out well enough – disregarding some power struggles from the more dissenting members of the pack. It hurts to have his own packmates try to turn against him, but a large part of him understands their anger and hesitance. It wasn’t so long ago that he was one of the people trying to hunt them down, trying to eradicate them like unwanted stray dogs.

It still disgusts him, to remember the sort of violence and hatred he had once been inspired into. And he understands that it makes the others wary of his power over them. He does his best to listen to their concerns and to maintain a good relationship with the pack, but the escalating circumstances of the renewed Circle, the Clave, and his involvement with a handful of shadowhunters from the Institute does little to smooth things over.

His phone rings, startling him from his thoughts, and he pulls it out of his pocket. The screen shows the name _‘Alec Lightwood’_ and Luke heaves a sigh before standing from his booth and heading out of the Jade Wolf. A call from Alec has never been a good sign, in Luke’s personal experience. Although the boy is not officially the Head of the Institute, anyone of New York’s Shadow World would tell you how he has been unofficially leading the shadowhunters on and off in Robert and Maryse’s stead since he was eighteen. Whether or not the Clave wants to accept it, most of the leaders of the downworld consider Alec to be in charge before any pompous Clave-appointed pawn.

Once he’s outside and – mostly – outside of his pack’s hearing, he answers the phone. “Alec,” he greets, “what can I do for you?”

 _“Hey, Luke,”_ a feminine voice that is decidedly _not_ Alec responds, sounding breathless and rushed. _“It’s Izzy. We have a situation that we could use your help with.”_

Luke feels a frown settling on his features. Situations involving nephilim and werewolves are rarely anything positive. “What kind of situation?” he asks, already gearing up to sprint across the city.

On the other end of the call, he can hear the muffled sounds of a struggle, the scuffling of shoes on pavement and the rustling of clothing, and over that he can hear the rumble of a voice that is most likely Alec. Izzy is breathless and deceptively calm when her voice comes back into focus. It reminds Luke all too much of her mother, back when they had been little more than children together. He shakes his head to clear the thought and forces himself to listen to Izzy.

 _“We found a freshly turned kid,”_ she gets out and Luke’s blood boils.

He can feel the wolf within him snapping its jaws, thrashing about in an attempt to break past its chains and take over. A part of him wants to give in to the impulse, wants to let the rush of adrenaline flood his veins, wants to let the wolf hunt down and murder whoever turned an innocent child. But he dutifully swallows back the urge and takes a deep breath. Working as a police detective has forced Luke to face an uncomfortable amount of violence against children. It never gets easier, but he knows that the only way he can be helpful is if he keeps his cool.

“Where are you?” he demands, slipping into the mixture of police detective and alpha that works best for him when it comes to Shadow World affairs.

The Lightwood girl rattles off an address before snapping out a quick _‘hurry’_ and hanging up. She doesn’t have to tell Luke twice, as he’s already sprinting in the given direction before Isabelle disconnects. Hailing a cab might be a bit of a quicker approach, but Luke really doesn’t think it would be smart to put a stressed out werewolf in such an enclosed space on the night of a full moon. And the neighborhood he’s headed for isn’t terribly far away, just a couple of miles to another section of the Bronx. Luke isn’t as fit as he had been as a young man, but he’s certainly no slouch and he manages to reach the address in under fifteen minutes.

Still, Luke feels nothing but apprehension as he slows to a walk. Fifteen minutes is more than enough for any multitude of things to go wrong. His worry is predominantly focused on the young child who is no doubt terrified, but he can admit that a healthy amount of his fear also concerns the Lightwood children. He’s seen them in action before and, logically, he knows that they’re some of the best and brightest shadowhunters of their generation. Even so, Luke really doesn’t want to know what Maryse Lightwood would do to him if her children were harmed in his vicinity.

He catches their scent on the air and uses it to narrow in on them. It does little to calm his nerves, because mixed with it are the distinct tang of blood and the fear-tinged smell of a newly turned werewolf. As he draws closer to the alleyway, he’s surprised to hear none of the trademark sounds of a frightened wolf. Instead, he picks up on the steady murmur of a soothing voice and the hesitant laughter of a young child.

The light from a streetlamp slants in through the alleyway’s opening and, although not much, it’s enough for Luke to make out the scene before him. He spots Isabelle first, from where she’s standing a few feet back from the mouth of the alleyway. She doesn’t seem injured and the only sign that she’s been in a struggle is the slight rumpling of her hair and her clothes. Her poise and confidence remind Luke so much of her mother that it almost feels like he’s a young man again.

“The kid’s okay,” she starts with, straight to the point and succinct in a way that would make Maryse proud. “He’s got a few scrapes, but nothing major. Alec managed to calm him down and get him to change back. Alec’s keeping him occupied now,” she explains, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder.

Luke looks past her shoulder and sees the figure of her brother, sitting on the cold concrete with his back against the alley wall. Like his sister, the eldest Lightwood appears to be unharmed, but Luke is startled to realize that Alec isn’t wearing a jacket. It’s early February and there’s a layer of ice and snow coating the city. Even Luke, with his winter coat and werewolf heat, is a little chilled; he can’t imagine that the shadowhunter is warm, even if he had managed to apply heat runes. When he looks to the small figure curled up beside Alec, however, he understands. Luke can’t make out any of the child’s features; all he can see is a mop of messy blond hair peeking out from the humorously oversized coat that is wrapped around the boy. There’s no doubt that it’s Alec’s.

He has to take a moment just to breathe out a sigh of relief and fully appreciate the situation. In front of him is a young boy who has turned for the first time, and instead of facing all the agony and fear alone, he has a 6’3” shadowhunter curled up on the ground next to him, talking in a soothing voice and ruffling the kid’s hair like they’re brothers. Luke is all too aware that, had perhaps any other shadowhunters stumbled upon the boy, they would have a dead child on their hands.

He pushes the thought away and clears his throat. Alec’s gaze flickers up to meet his, before the younger man gives a nod of consent. Luke walks further down the alley, careful to keep his steps slow and steady, until he’s close enough to crouch in front of the young werewolf.

Alec barely spares a passing thought for Luke; he’s focused almost entirely on the boy. “Henry,” he starts, voice quiet and gentle in a way that Luke never anticipated from him, “this is my friend, Luke. He’s a police officer, and he has a daughter a little bit older than your sister, and he likes dogs, too.”

Not all of those facts are strictly true, but Luke knows how important it can be to normalize unfamiliar adults in the eyes of scared children. He watches as two big green eyes flicker between himself and Alec, and how a scrawny arm reaches out of the boy’s bundled up coat to latch onto the shadowhunter’s shirt. Henry’s nails are still suspiciously long and sharp, his teeth worryingly pointed, his eyes wolfish in nature. Luke fears that the boy may lose his composure and wolf out again, and with Alec as close as he is, it’s a danger that Luke really doesn’t want to tempt.

Alec, however, seems as calm as can be. He continues the repetitious movement of running his fingers through the boy’s matted hair and he doesn’t even stiffen when the boy buries his head in the juncture between Alec’s neck and shoulder. It’s a dangerous position for Alec to be in, with so many vulnerable parts of his body exposed to an uncontrollable werewolf on a full moon, and yet Alec simply pulls the boy even closer.

“Luke,” Alec continues, looking now at the older werewolf, “this is my new friend, Henry. He’s eight years old, he wants to own a farm when he grows up, and his favorite dinosaur is the stegosaurus.” Alec says all of this in a serious manner that seems to entirely contradict the words themselves, but which nevertheless inspires a toothy grin from the boy in question.

Luke doesn’t know Alec all that well, but in the months of their acquaintanceship, he’s come to learn enough about the young man to have an understanding of his personality. He’s seen Alec in what many would consider a foul mood, all crossed arms and glowering stares. But rather than being put off by the boy’s manner, Luke appreciates his no-nonsense attitude towards his job, and he doubly appreciates his ability to at least somewhat temper the reckless decisions that come from Clary and Jace. He’s even accidentally run into Alec with Magnus on occasion, has seen them at the Hunter’s Moon a handful of times, and Luke has seen the surprising gentleness with which Alec watches Magnus.

But none of those interactions have prepared Luke to face _this_ side of Alec, a side that cuddles with young children and shares a boyish grin over childish jokes and talks about dinosaurs with a scared eight-year-old werewolf. It warms Luke’s own heart to see the easy manner with which he handles the situation. But it also inspires a deep-seated guilt to rise up like bile in the back of his throat. When Luke had been twenty-three, the same impossibly young age that Alec is now, he had been more invested in eradicating downworlders than in helping innocent werewolf children.

It isn’t something that Luke will ever forgive himself for. But he ignores the stinging guilt and instead focuses on the boy. “Hello Henry,” he greets, in that carefully gentle tone that he always uses for children involved in violent cases.

It takes a good deal of coaxing for them to get the information they need out of Henry. He seems to prefer Alec over Luke, and the shadowhunter has far more success at getting the boy to talk. Henry never attempts to move away from Alec nor even tries to loosen his grip on the young man’s shirt; eventually, however, the last vestiges of his wolf transformation fade back into completely normal human features and Luke finds he can breathe a bit easier for it.

It’s nearing two in the morning, just over half an hour after Izzy had first called Luke, when Henry begins to drift off to sleep. None of them try to keep him awake, as they have the names of his parents and his address. Now comes the hard part: Luke will have to explain the whole situation to the parents, and he can only pray that they will believe him and not fear their son. After that, Luke will have to hunt down the rogue werewolf responsible for biting the child. He doesn’t have much to go off of; Henry had been bitten by what he had thought was a stray dog a few weeks back, but he doesn’t remember what the ‘dog’ had looked like. Luke will inform the pack and have them on the lookout for any loners, and Alec promises that he’ll have the shadowhunters back at the Institute keep their eyes peeled.

Alec and Izzy decide to walk with him back to Henry’s house, which is undoubtedly a good thing, considering how Henry continues to clutch onto Alec’s shirt even as the shadowhunter scoops him up and carries him. The young man is exceptionally careful, and yet remarkably familiar, with how he cradles the child to his chest, doing what he can to ensure that his own jacket covers the majority of the boy’s body. It reminds Luke suddenly and viscerally of how Clary used to sometimes fall asleep on the couch, and he would have to carry her back to her bed and tuck her in. He misses such simple times with an ache that catches deep in his chest.

Henry’s home is only a twelve minute walk from where they were, and it isn’t long before Luke is knocking on the front door. It’s a quaint townhouse, and all the lights are still on, a good sign that his parents are aware that their son is missing and that they are awake. The door flies open in a matter of moments, and Luke is pulling out his badge before the frazzled parents can even open their mouths.

“Mr. and Mrs. Connors,” he greets.

They hardly spare a fleeting glance at him, however, and are immediately drawn to the sight of their son in Alec’s arms. The mother lets out a choked off sob as Alec hands the boy off to his father. Henry chooses that moment to half-wake up and groggily rub at his eyes, calling for his parents in a plaintive voice that threatens to break Luke’s already fragile heart.

While the parents are understandably focused entirely on their son, they gather their wits after a few minutes and hurriedly invite the three strangers into their home, spouting out litanies of _‘thank you’_ and _‘do you need any coffee or tea’_ and _‘you must be freezing, let us get you some blankets,’_ although that final one is predominantly aimed at Alec. They let the parents herd them onto the sofa in the family room, and Luke very nearly wants to chuckle at the peculiar picture the two Lightwood siblings make in such a mundane setting. Izzy is idly looking around at the Christmas decorations that are still scattered about the room, even over a month after the holiday, and Alec looks particularly grumpy trapped under the small mountain of blankets the Connors force upon him. The couch is far too small for all three of them, and it’s short enough that Alec’s knees are crammed a touch too high. Izzy’s leg is bouncing, the thud of her heeled boots barely muted by the worn carpet, and Luke can’t help but think that it’s probably a terrible idea to keep two shadowhunters trapped inside a mundane home while they are supposed to be in the middle of a patrol.

Before he can suggest that the two of them leave and finish up their prior engagements, the Connors’ eldest child, a fifteen-year-old girl named Rosie, makes them hot chocolate with copious amounts of mini-marshmallows and whipped cream piled on top. Luke accepts a mug simply out of gratitude and he manages a few perfunctory sips before the sugar overload forces him to stop. Isabelle fairs only marginally better than himself, but Alec practically inhales the sugary concoction. Luke wonders if perhaps the young man is far colder than he’s willing to admit or if he genuinely loves ridiculously sweet drinks.

They survive several long minutes of awkward silence, sitting there in the living room of some mundane home, before Henry comes bounding down the hallway, his parents both close behind. His face has been cleaned off and his hair combed back, and he’s clad in dinosaur pajamas that make Luke grin. The boy heads straight for the pile of blankets that Alec is trapped under and he thrusts the shadowhunter’s leather jacket out towards him.

“Thank you very much, Mister Alec, for letting me use your jacket,” Henry rattles off in a way that makes it clear he was instructed to do so.

Alec graciously takes the coat, but instead of putting it on, he drapes it back over the boy’s thin shoulders. “How about you hold onto it for me?” he suggests, much to the wide-eyed astonishment of the child.

“Really?” Henry asks in a hushed tone.

“Yeah. You’ll need a good jacket like that when you finally grow into it.”

Henry beams at the thought, and very nearly jumps for joy. It’s only the steady hand of his mother resting on his shoulder that stops the action. Suddenly, the boy gasps. “What’s your favorite dinosaur?” he demands of Alec.

At this point, Luke doesn’t really know what to expect from the shadowhunter. But he isn’t exactly surprised when Alec adopts a mock-contemplative look before finally settling on saying the triceratops. The boy gives a decisive little nod to himself before dashing away, only to return moments later with a dinosaur figurine held carefully in his hands. He holds the toy out to Alec, who picks it up with all the care one would a priceless antique.

“This is Trikie,” Henry explains, all self-important and serious. “He’s one of my favorites, and he scares away all the bad shadows at night. Now he’s yours.”

Beside Luke, he can see Isabelle attempt to hide her laughter by taking a long sip of her hot chocolate, and even Luke has to purse his lips and hold a hand to his mouth to conceal his own infectious grin. Alec, however, remains remarkably stoic as he nods and accepts the gift.

“Thank you very much, Henry,” he says, in a solemn tone that would sound more at home in a formal Clave address than it does directed at an eight-year-old. “I will take good care of Trikie.”

Luke thinks that Izzy nearly spits her hot chocolate out. Luke himself isn’t very far behind. Henry, however, adores Alec’s response, and accordingly throws his arms around the young man one last time before his mother finally leads him back to his bedroom.

He wishes that he could cherish the moment for a bit longer, but he knows that a difficult discussion is coming up. As the alpha of the New York pack, it’s up to him to ensure that the parents and the boy are fully aware of the circumstances, that they know there is a support system set up to help them through the transition. And, if all goes to hell, then it’s his responsibility to clean up the mess.

“You need us to stick around any longer, Luke?” Izzy asks. “This idiot here has probably been hiding an injury this entire time,” she continues, nodding in the direction of her sullen brother.

“Hey,” Alec puts up a feeble protest, but the tense way he holds his left arm close to his body is a dead giveaway for anyone who knows what to look for.

“Yeah, you two head on out. You sure you’re okay to get back?” He wouldn’t dare doubt their ability, but – as Simon would put it – the papa wolf in him still looks at the Lightwood siblings and sees how young they are.

Alec scoffs, already back to his typical surly mood now that his new little friend has left, and even Izzy rolls her eyes at him. “We can handle ourselves,” Izzy assures.

“Besides, now we have Trikie to keep us safe,” Alec adds, in what has to be the most perfected deadpan tone Luke has ever heard. Izzy chokes on a snicker and Luke can’t stop the chuckle that spills past his own lips. Both of the siblings stand up, and Alec leans over to rest a hand lightly on Luke’s shoulder. “Good luck, Luke. And if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Take care. Stay out of trouble,” he waves them off, hoping that the patented _‘stern dad’_ tone works on them as well as it does for Clary and Simon. Although, given that the siblings have a reputation for rebellion even with Maryse Lightwood as a mother, he doesn’t really expect it to.

He still walks them to the door and watches them as they make their way down the snow-lined streets. The last thing he sees before they turn a corner is Alec fiddling with the toy triceratops, holding it obnoxiously close to his sister’s face. Isabelle seems to elbow him for his antics, but still throws her head back to let out a laugh. And then they’re gone, and Luke can’t help the lingering concern that they make it home unscathed.

But he has his own responsibilities, and he dutifully returns to the Connors’ living room and settles in for what promises to be a painful conversation. Cases involving kids are always the worst. But cases involving kids seem to go much smoother with Alec Lightwood around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We could all use a Trikie in our lives to help beat back the bad shadows.
> 
> As I mentioned previously, the rest of the chapters will be a good deal shorter than Magnus'. Because I can ramble as Magnus for days, but other characters are just harder to write.
> 
> I really enjoy the relationship between Luke and Alec that we see hints of in the show; I wish they would give us more of their dynamic.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed Luke's contribution to this series! Please leave me some kudos or a comment! Who do you think is next?
> 
> ~PNGuin


	3. Clary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some minor violence - par for the course with demon hunting. Nothing graphic, but still there.

**III. Clary**

 

Clary stumbles back from her opponent. She very nearly loses her footing, but she remembers the countless hours of training that the Lightwood siblings have forced her through, and rolls with the movement. She’s small, and that means that she can’t just plant her feet and take the hits, not like Alec or Jace can, so remaining light on her feet and keeping her body loose is the best method for her. With barely even a stagger, she manages to regain her balance. She lashes back out, a quick one-two of her seraph blade aimed at the least armored portions of the _ravener_ demon she’s facing.

The first hit lands perfectly, right at the weak joint where the _ravener’s_ leg connects to its body, but Clary doesn’t anticipate how the demon violently flinches back. She doesn’t have time to correct her second swing, and it makes contact right against the creature’s heavily armored back. Her blade glances off of the scales with enough force to rattle the bones all the way up her arm, and the misjudged momentum of her attack causes her body to keep moving and she tumbles to the concrete.

The collision between her shoulder and the ground is a painful one, but Clary turns in to the pain and keeps her body rolling so that she can get back up. Her knee twinges with a flash of searing pain, but she ignores it in favor of staying focused. The _ravener_ doesn’t pause to let her catch her breath or gather her wits and it lunges before she can bring her arms back up into a ready position. She tries to dodge to the side, but even as she’s forcing her aching body to move she knows that she’s not going to make it. The best that she can hope for is merely minimizing the damage.

But instead of vicious claws raking into her side and demon venom searing in her veins, she hears the now-familiar _thwp_ of an arrow being released and the subsequent _thnk_ of it burying perfectly in the demon’s eye. The _ravener_ explodes in a rain of inky black ichor; it splatters all over, staining the ground and burning Clary where it lands on bare skin. It’s not terribly painful, and Clary is far too relieved at having avoided actual injury to care about how the ichor will stain her clothes and leave her skin smudged like soot for a few days.

She doesn’t take any time to review her own status before she’s pivoting around to try and help Alec however she can. When they had encountered a handful of _ravener_ demons while on patrol, Alec had somehow managed to ensure that the majority of them stay focused on him rather than on Clary. So while Clary had danced around and struggled with one, Alec had faced the other four alone. And even then, the only reason she isn’t a human kabob is because Alec had to kill _her_ demon for her. She needs to return the favor, but when she turns to face Alec it’s to the sight of him plunging his seraph blade through the head of the last demon. Unlike Clary, Alec seems to somehow miraculously avoid all of the spraying ichor, and he walks away from the fight with hardly a hair out of place.

It’s completely ridiculous, but Clary feels spite and resentment well in her chest. She ignores it and instead focuses on wiping the ichor off of her blades. Her hands are trembling and her knees shake, and she doesn’t really know if it’s from the adrenaline wearing off or the instinctual fear that plagues her whenever she encounters any demons. Believe it or not, but having undiluted angel blood in her does little to curb the shiver of horror that accompanies demon sightings. She still doesn’t know how the Lightwood siblings managed to do it at age _twelve_.

Alec walks over towards her and a heavy dose of dread joins the spite and resentment in Clary. She plants her feet and resolutely remains where she stands, but she feels uncomfortably like she’s just some bratty kid waiting to get chewed out by the school principal. Alec has always made her feel like that; he’s always come across as some disapproving authority figure just waiting for her to slip up. She _hates_ how it never fails to make her feel like a _child_. It isn’t fair.

Clary immediately swallows back the thought and all of the negative emotions attached to it, knowing that she’s exaggerating her own reactions due to her exhaustion and frustration. Alec has been her main trainer for the better part of the eight months since her eighteenth birthday, and – although she still sees him as an overly surly hard-ass – she’s learned enough about Alec to know that he really _does_ want her to improve and succeed in the field, whether or not he always acts like it. It’s a difficult thing to try and remind herself of, in the face of her own failure and the dressing down she’s expecting from Alec.

“ _Ravener_ demons are swift. You have to make uncommitted strikes in order to respond to their movements quickly enough. You put too much of your weight behind your attack and then you weren’t able to change trajectory when needed,” the older shadowhunter explains. His voice would be considered dispassionate and critical to anyone who doesn’t know Alec Lightwood, but Clary at least can see the concern in his eyes as they clinically sweep over her body, mentally checking for any major injuries.

She reluctantly nods. She _knows_ all of that; it’s just the matter of putting said knowledge into practice that always trips her up.

Clary fully expects for Alec to simply continue dragging them along to finish their patrol – _silently_ , he always likes to remind her. They don’t have too much left to do; they’re just on a simple routine patrol. Well, it’s not really a simple routine patrol. Clary is uncomfortably aware that Alec has taken her out tonight in order to assess her abilities. So far, it’s not going well and she’s done nothing but make a fool of herself.

But Alec surprises her by gently clapping a comforting hand to her shoulder. It’s remarkably similar to the shoulder pat that he routinely gives Izzy and Jace whenever he sees them. She doesn’t expect to enjoy it nearly as much as she does.

“You had a nice recovery, there. You been practicing your rolls?”

“Yeah,” she admits, a little dazed by the abrupt change.

“It shows. Keep up the good work, Fray. We’ll make a shadowhunter out of you yet,” he flashes a small grin that seems almost _cheeky_ in nature.

Absolutely no one would believe her if she told them that, not even Simon. Alec Lightwood doesn’t give people _cheeky grins_. And Clary will just have to live the rest of her life questioning whether what she saw was real or just a hallucination. Maybe she really _did_ get hit with demon venom. But before Clary can punch him in the arm like she very much wants to, he’s ducking away and heading towards an apartment building nearby.

“Come on, Fray, we have work to do.” And just as quickly, he’s back to being surly and strict like Clary has come to expect. “Someone had to summon those demons; probably somewhere nearby.”

“The apartments?” Clary assumes, having to half-jog just to keep up with Alec’s far longer strides. “How can you tell?” She doesn’t usually ask so many questions when she’s out with Izzy or Jace; they have a tendency to either dumb things down to a ridiculous point or say something that flies entirely over her head. Alec seemingly has the distinct gift of tending to know just what level she happens to be at.

He points upwards. “There are several windows that have been busted. The shards are still on the street. Since this is a relatively nice neighborhood, they would’ve already been cleaned up if they were from an older incident,” Alec explains succinctly.

Coming from him, it seems like such a simple clue to see. But Clary doesn’t think she ever would have noticed had Alec not pointed it out. That rankles a little bit, but she takes note of the situation and resolves to try and learn from it. Perhaps next time she will be able to notice such a tiny detail herself.

For now, she dutifully follows behind Alec. He has her use an unlocking rune so that they can break into the building, and he lets her take point as they venture down the halls. It’s almost peculiar, being somewhere so utterly _mundane_ after living in the Institute for so many months. The halls are eerily quiet, the lights yellow and harsh against her sensitive eyes. She moves forward confidently, dutifully checking each corner just as Alec taught her. Her legs are trembling, just a bit, and she sincerely hopes that Alec can’t tell; knowing how annoyingly observant he can be, her hopes are probably nothing more than wishful thinking.

But if Alec notices anything off, he doesn’t mention it. Clary leads them all the way up to the fourth floor, where the window had been busted out, but she doesn’t know where to go from there. She can’t remember which window had been broken, nor can she place which room it would correspond with. Reluctantly, she turns back to Alec with what she hopes is an expression that will garner even the slightest bit of pity from the ever-stoic Lightwood.

A ludicrous hope, when it comes to Alec.

He stares her down for several stretched out seconds and Clary begins to think that he won’t help her. But then he huffs out a sigh. “What do we need to do when we’re trying to track down a demonic energy signal?”

She furrows her brow in thought and mentally runs through the crash course on demon hunting that she’s been thrown into. “ _Spiritum_!” she recalls, already burning it into her own skin. “It lets us visualize traces of supernatural energies.”

“Good,” Alec nods, that slightest bit of approval that leaves Clary a little bit warmer.

As the rune takes effect, she can see wisps of demonic energy that leak out from under one of the doors down the hall. She readjusts her grip on her seraph blade before she takes a steadying breath and heads for the door. Alec is right behind her, a reassuring presence at her back. As they draw closer, she begins to smell the particularly putrid scent that accompanies demons, a foul combination of sulfur and ash and blood. Some shadowhunters can tell which realm of Hell a demon came from just by their scent; Clary thinks all of them smell the same.

They stand on either side of the door, weapons poised. Alec gives a curt nod and Clary swings the door open. Inside, the stench of demon is overwhelming and it nearly knocks her over. She just barely retains her stomach. But the trouble doesn’t end there. The apartment is absolutely _trashed_. All of the furniture has deep claw marks in it, things are tossed everywhere, shattered glass litters the floor, there are suspicious stains splattered against the walls.

And, collapsed in the threshold leading to the kitchen, there’s a body. Alec immediately moves for it, kneeling down and checking for a pulse. He quickly pronounces the body dead and beckons Clary over. She’s reluctant to draw any closer to the corpse, but she knows that – unfortunately – death is a major part of the whole shadowhunting gig.

“What can you tell?” the older shadowhunter asks, yet another test for his poor apprentice.

Clary swallows the dinner that threatens to make a reappearance and then tries to channel her ‘inner pathologist’ like Izzy taught her. “Female, probably around mid-thirties. Cause of death is most likely due to the lacerations on the body.”

Alec nods along approvingly, but when it becomes clear that Clary has run out of notes, he takes over. He isn’t nearly as skilled at forensic science as Izzy, but he knows enough to point out several more aspects to Clary. He’s about to give a short rundown of what he can see when a sharp wailing cuts through the quiet air around them.

She flinches back, pulling her blade up in front of her in a defensive position. She’s expecting more _ravener_ demons to erupt out of the very walls of the apartment and Clary is gearing up for a battle. But Alec leaps to his feet and disappears down the short hall, headed in the direction of the cry, and Clary is left to scramble after him. She’s just a few steps behind him when he ducks into a small room.

And it suddenly clicks. Not the wailing of some demonic creature. The cries of an _infant_.

They’re in a nursery, miraculously still intact even after the demons destroyed the rest of the apartment. Off to one side is a crib, where she can see the weakly flailing little chubby arms of a baby. The shrieks are louder now, heaving hiccoughs of distress that break Clary’s heart more and more. She wonders how long the mother has been dead, how long the child has been left sobbing in its crib, unattended and abandoned.

She doesn’t have long to think about it, because then there’s the telltale _clatter_ of demon claws against the floor and Alec is snapping into action. He readies his bow, an arrow notched in one single fluid motion, and he orders Clary to grab the child. She dutifully rushes to the crib and reaches in to pick up the baby, but then she stumbles upon the problem.

Clary is an only child. She grew up with no siblings, no cousins, and her one good friend was the youngest of his family. She never spent time with babies. She doesn’t know _how_ to hold a baby.

But she can’t afford to wait and figure it out. She does her best to awkwardly place her arms around the screaming child and hold it gently. She at least knows to support the neck, so she has that much going for her. Alec glances back at her before turning his attention on their encroaching opponents.

He makes short work of most of them, a single arrow straight to the head is enough to send them flying in a spray of ichor. Clary inches along a few steps behind him, always checking over her shoulder to make sure none are trying to sneak up behind her while she’s exposed, but they’re lucky enough that _ravener_ demons are not particularly tactic-minded. Alec manages to lead them out of the apartment, down the hall, and all the way out of the building without Clary or the crying baby coming to any harm.

By the time they’re back outside in the brisk chill of an early April night, the infant is screaming louder than ever and Clary is very much panicking. She can’t seem to figure out where her arms are supposed to go, so she’s resorted to just haphazardly clutching the child to her chest. It doesn’t seem quite right, because the baby is still screaming, so she tries holding it further out in front of her. But that doesn’t work either because then the baby shrieks even _louder_ , until Clary’s ears are ringing with a sound worse than the crying of the damned. A small part of her thinks that it was the infant’s cries which summoned the demons into this realm.

Alec sweeps the area, double, triple, quadruple-checking with runes and weapons and everything at his disposal before finally deeming their position safe enough for the time being. And then he’s turning to Clary with the most unimpressed look on his face. At some point between their flight through the apartment and down onto the street, the baby had spit up some weird looking green gunk onto the front of Clary’s jacket – well, actually, it’s one of Izzy’s leather jackets; hopefully Clary can get the stain out. One of the wildly flailing infant hands latches onto a lock of her hair and gives an almighty _yank_ and then her eyes are stinging enough that she feels the need to join in with the baby’s crying.

She’s desperately waiting for Alec to contact the Institute so that they can send out a scrubbing squad. They need some specialists to collect the body and transport it back to Izzy’s lab, and then for them to go through and ensure that no mundanes accidentally stumble upon their demonic crime scene. Alec will have to coordinate with Luke to make sure that the NYPD doesn’t investigate before the Institute’s crime scene squads can finish their own portion.

But instead of making any of those calls, Alec rolls his eyes and scoffs at her. “Fray, what the Hell are you doing?”

“What do you mean? I’m holding a baby,” she retorts over the aggravating sound of a wailing infant.

“Not very well,” he grouches, before slinging his bow onto his shoulder and gently taking the child from her.

She almost protests, worried for some reason that he’ll be too harsh in his grip, but his hands – typically used for so much violence that they’re scarred and bruised from it – are achingly tender. He shifts the baby in his arms, cradling her with an ease that Clary would be envious of if her brain would start working again.

There, right in front of her, the towering, intimidating, ever-surly Alec Lightwood begins rocking slightly on his feet, humming quietly under his breath and hushing the distraught child. The infant flails her arms again, and Alec lets her catch one of his pinkies and clutch onto it like a lifeline. He brushes a few fingers over the fine little hairs on top of her head and then continues to check along her body for injuries of any sort, all the while humming and swaying in a soothing rhythm that nearly lulls Clary to sleep. The baby snuggles contentedly in his arms and quiets after only a few idle moments, finally leaving them in blessed quiet.

“I know, sweetie,” he murmurs to the infant. “You’re alright now.”

Clary thinks she’s accidentally tripped and fallen into yet another alternate reality.

Alec flicks his gaze over to her, just a fleeting look that somehow manages to look scathing even while holding a bundle of pink blankets in his arms. It lasts only a second before he’s glancing back to the baby and the frosty expression _melts_ in a heartbeat. She doesn’t know how he can go from grouchy to adoring in a split-second, but it’s remarkably impressive.

“Fray,” he calls, voice all business even as he bounces the cooing infant. “Call Izzy and let her know about the crime scene,” Alec orders.

She’s frozen in place, still trying to get her brain to work through the unexpected sight of Alec Lightwood handling a baby like he does it every single day. Logically, it makes sense that he would have at least _some_ experience with children, given that he’s the eldest of his siblings. But that connection just isn’t satisfying her brain, and she’s left with her mouth hanging open like some idiot. Flies are going to start buzzing into her mouth at this rate.

“Fray,” Alec snaps again, getting her attention and forcing her to click her mouth shut.

“What about,” she starts to argue, “the baby?” She points helplessly at the bundle of blankets, listening to the gentle cooing noises that the infant seems content to make in Alec’s direction.

“Warlock,” the older shadowhunter states, but offers no further explanation for how he’s aware of it. “I know someone who will take her in and care for her.”

It’s a vague answer. One which leaves more question unanswered than answered, but Clary can tell by the set of Alec’s jaw that it’s as much information as she’s going to get. She supposes that’s to be expected, anyway.

She pulls out her phone and dials Izzy’s number. It only takes a few rings before the Lightwood girl is picking up and Clary is forced to get her head screwed on straight to take care of the situation. She’s just finished up relaying all of the details that they know of to Izzy when she turns back around. Only to see Alec – _the_ Alec Lightwood, the surly asshole who scoffs at everyone and only ever smiles for his boyfriend or siblings – making funny faces to the infant in his arms and laughing along when the baby giggles for his efforts.

He has his own phone out and pressed against his ear, and Clary knows that he’s called Magnus because Alec greets him with an adoring _‘hey, babe’_ that has a sappy grin curly at his lips. It’s endearing enough to make _Clary’s_ knees weak; she has no idea how Magnus manages to remain standing if Alec usually greets him like that. She still remembers when she first met Alec, the surly and lonely closeted boy who hated himself and the world. There’s something poetic, something utterly _right_ , in seeing him now, like this: happily talking to his beloved boyfriend while he cradles a cooing infant in his arms.

Privately, Clary is planning on starting a betting pool. How long before it’s Alec talking to his _husband_ while cradling his own child? She would put good money on it only taking a few years, at most. Maybe she’ll get Simon and Izzy in on it.

Nevertheless, out of all of the peculiar and supernatural things Clary has encountered since her eighteenth birthday, she’s pretty sure this one takes the cake. Although, that doesn’t stop the whole scene from being unbearably cute. Who knew that Alec Lightwood would be so charmingly adorable with kids?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to join Clary's betting pool?
> 
> And yes, don't worry about the baby. She's going to grow up in Edith's orphanage with a slew of older siblings and regular visits from honorary uncles Magnus and Alec.
> 
> I've mentioned it before but I'll say it again: I really enjoy writing the dynamic between Alec and Clary. They have so much potential for a great friendship. Why must the show squander all of the platonic relationships?
> 
> Thank you all very much for the lovely comments I've been getting! Keep 'em coming!
> 
> ~PNGuin


	4. Catarina

**IV. Catarina**

 

Typically, Catarina enjoys her forays into the Spiral Labyrinth. She’s spent countless years lost among its truly immeasurable stockpiles of information, learning and growing and expanding as many warlocks do within its warded refuge. It’s dizzying and unfathomable in its scope, completely unknowable in its wealth of knowledge, and absolutely _safe_ in a way that no other corners of existence have ever been for warlocks. The Spiral Labyrinth has long been a sanctuary for her.

And yet, today, it is an unbearable _cage_.

She’s sitting beside Magnus and they’ve been listening to old fuddy-duddy, senile fools drone on and on for some inexhaustible length of time. One of the many issues with being immortal, she would claim, is their propensity for long-winded complaints that continue until the matter at hand has been out-lasted. Truly, it’s a miracle that the warlocks ever get _anything_ done, between all their squabbling and bickering and eternal grudges.

It isn’t usually a problem for her to tolerate. Most often, her and Magnus devise their own methods for retaining a sense of focus and enjoyment, their own ways to _pass notes_ during these horrifically dull meetings. But this time, Magnus – the absolute _traitor_ – is actually _paying attention_ to the ridiculous speech that Nessa White has been rambling on about for the last three hours. Before they had arrived together, he had claimed it necessary to actually feign interest at this Warlock Summit; something about how his reputation has already taken more than a few hits due to his not-so-subtle connection with a certain Lightwood boy.

Catarina just doesn’t understand why it means that _she_ must suffer. And suffer she is. It’s the first Warlock Summit that has been called regarding the issue of Valentine’s resurgence and – in proper warlock manner – it is a good few months too late. Magnus has already worked through a multitude of different plans of attack, both with and without the shadowhunters’ involvement, and Catarina herself has already plotted out her own strategies for dealing with the matter at hand. So, quite expectedly, the entire Summit is a waste of time for any well-prepared warlocks such as themselves. They’ve faced a good many witch-hunts before; they know how to buckle down, lay low, and weather the storms until they pass.

Unfortunately, not all that many warlocks have similar sensibilities. Which means that Catarina and Magnus are, ostensibly, here to babysit all of the mindless little brats who don’t have the first clue regarding what they’re facing. The entire ordeal is horribly draining. Catarina doesn’t have the time nor the patience to waste hours of her day lecturing foolish warlocks who spend their lives hiding in the Labyrinth on how to deal with the encroachment of the real world. That is a life lesson that every warlock must learn for themselves, as she sees it.

Besides, she now has her own child to babysit; she doesn’t have time to micromanage the rest of the Spiral Labyrinth. This is the first Summit that has been called since she adopted Madzie, and children are definitively not allowed within the Labyrinth. Meaning that not only is she having to miss work just to attend the clusterfuck, but she also had to leave Madzie back in New York. And, considering that all of her fellow warlocks had been likewise dragged into the mess, she had been forced to find a new babysitter.

Luckily for her, Alec Lightwood had practically begged for the opportunity.

She’s been anxious ever since she left Madzie back at Magnus’ loft with the towering shadowhunter. Catarina has seen – and healed –far too many seraph blade wounds inflicted upon the young flesh of child warlocks to feel _comfortable_ leaving her daughter with one of the nephilim. But she’s met Alec before at Magnus’ insistence, and she’s heard a good deal of the work he’s managed to do only a few months into his position as Head of the New York Institute, and Madzie seems to downright _adore_ the young man. So, with limited options, she had hesitantly agreed for Alec to watch Madzie for a few hours.

But now the Summit is dragging well past _five hours_ , and Catarina is sick of sitting in one place, and she’s nervously waiting for her chance to go collect her daughter and go back home. She’s self-aware enough to know that her anxiety is only partially fueled by logical fears; but she’s also been through too many centuries of war to feel completely confident in leaving her young child with a trained soldier.

From every scrap of information she’s managed to glean on Alec Lightwood, she’s fairly certain that the boy is _different_ from other nephilim. It’s taken her the near nine months he’s been dating Magnus for her to reluctantly come to such a conclusion. At first, the only evidence that had been suggestive of the shadowhunter’s manner had been Magnus’ own infatuation, and Catarina had initially quite detested the bastard who had stolen her friend’s heart. She’s seen Magnus through a good number of his ill-advised trysts; Magnus has always been the sort to fall deeply and quickly, blind in a manner that had led to him foolishly forgiving even the worst slights. Admittedly, when Magnus had collapsed upon her couch with a lovesick sigh and had dreamily recounted his first few dates with an emotionally repressed _shadowhunter_ , Catarina had prepared for the worst and expected another Camille.

She’s one of the exceptionally few who had been privy to the most volatile of Magnus’ breakups and to the all-consuming loneliness that had plagued him following his inevitable falling out with the frosty bitch. And, while it had been heartbreaking to see her dear friend slip further and further into isolation, to watch as one of the kindest hearts she’s ever known steadily calcified, she – like most warlocks – had found the slow petrification of their kind preferable to a misguided relationship with one of their long-time enemies.

In Catarina’s expansive experience on the matter, Magnus Bane has always been the sort to be wretched while in love. He was miserable in his loneliness, but he was downright tragic in love. She had seen it in the aggravating decades of his on-again-off-again relationship with Camille, in his obsessive flings with Imasu or Kitty, in his heartbroken attempts at love with Etta or Dot. In all their years as friends, no one had ever entered into a relationship with Magnus and had actually given him the love he had always deserved. It’s why Catarina has always been dubbed the _bitchy friend_ of Magnus’; she’s the one who’s always been there to take out the trash, even when Magnus wasn’t willing to accept it.

So when her beloved friend had shown up in her apartment, absolutely smitten with the eldest _Lightwood_ boy of all things, she had been prepared to smack some sense into him and deal with the damn nephilim. She had expected Magnus’ typical lovesick misery to return, just as it had every single time he had gone back to Camille. But, miraculously, Alec Lightwood had defied all of her cynical expectations. Odd, isn’t it, how some foolishly honest, doe-eyed shadowhunter boy has managed to break hundreds of years of tradition as easily as breathing?

Magnus has not been his usual miserable self. In fact, in the last nine months of his relationship with Alec, Catarina has noticed an overwhelming _lightness_ to her dear friend. It’s invigorating and passionate and warming in a way that she’s never seen from Magnus, perhaps not ever in the entirety of their acquaintanceship. Certainly not when he’s been in a relationship. And it’s been a blessing to see his isolation and loneliness dissolve, to watch an equally infatuated shadowhunter painstakingly eroding away the calcification of Magnus’ heart.

That being said, she’s mostly reserved her judgment of the eldest Lightwood child. And that sort of detachment has, largely, served her well enough for the past year. But now said Lightwood is alone in Magnus’ loft with her traumatized four-year-old daughter and Catarina is stuck in the Spiral Labyrinth. All of her cautious acceptance of Magnus’ latest boytoy is a moot point in the face of her own anxiety.

But not even the most loquacious of warlocks can talk forever. Eventually, the Summit is adjourned and Catarina hastily climbs to her feet. They’re asleep after sitting so long, and it’s nearly painful to move them, but she yanks Magnus from his seat beside her and she drags him through the familiar twisting halls of the Labyrinth. She’s a woman on a mission and not a single warlock dares to intervene.

“While that Summit was quite a bore, I don’t see what you’re rushing about for, Cat,” Magnus grumbles beside her, even as he hastens to keep up with her.

“You sound almost put out by that, Magnus. Weren’t you the one complaining that this impromptu meeting was ruining your _date night_ with that little nephilim of yours?” she shoots back, tossing an unimpressed look over her shoulder.

She just barely manages to catch the bashful blush that stains his cheeks. Imagine, her dear Magnus Bane. Blushing like some schoolboy! Catarina almost scoffs at how overwhelmingly in love he is, but even she is not cynical enough to resist a genuine grin at his happiness.

They manage to reach the single standing portal found within the Spiral Labyrinth without facing any more possible roadblocks, and then they’re whisked away from the pocket dimension and being spat back out on the streets of New York, right in front of Magnus’ apartment building. She doesn’t even bother stopping to straighten up her clothes before she’s heading inside and calling for the elevator. Magnus himself is practically vibrating out of his own skin, and Catarina barely holds in a snort of amusement. When was the last time Magnus so eagerly looked forward to seeing his significant other, instead of secretly dreading it? The change is overwhelmingly refreshing.

Normally, she would find it within herself to pester her dear friend more. Perhaps she would tease him about his foiled date night plans, or maybe try and pry more information of his relationship out of him, or even threaten to regale Alec with the most embarrassing bits of blackmail she has on Magnus. But, for now, she’s exhausted and anxious and cranky and wants nothing more than to collect Madzie and go home.

She reaches the front door of Magnus’ loft before he does, but his wards unlock the door and let her in even without his conscious thought. Magnus has been living in the same apartment for many decades, although he does tend to move it around the city every now and then. Catarina has spent many hours ranting, getting high, and simply escaping life within the familiar confines of Magnus’ wards. But when she passes through the threshold, she’s overcome with an unexpected feeling.

It’s getting late out, the sun dipping down below the horizon and stretching long shadows through the apartment. There’s a delicate lighting, gentle and yellow, illuminating the main living room; more light spills soft as the tide from the kitchen, where the smells of savory gazpacho and sweet desert drift out around them. There are pictures of Magnus and Alec framed on the walls and along the tables, and a small stockpile of nephilim weapons carefully hung up on a coat rack by the door.

In all her many, many years knowing Magnus Bane, never has one of his places of residence ever felt more like a _home_. She’s accustomed to party pads, bachelor bars, hermit hideaways. Not this gloriously warm corner of existence, secluded from the trials of the world, where Magnus has stowed away all of the little pieces of his own happiness. For the first time, she almost feels like an intruder in his life.

From the kitchen, she can hear the sugar-sweet giggles of her daughter and the deeper timbre of Alec’s chuckle. The sound nestles deep in her chest and suddenly she can breathe easily. Catarina has only been Madzie’s caretaker for two fleeting months, and her improvement since her abuse at Valentine’s hand has been slow-going. The poor girl is exceptionally quiet, even on her good days, and even Catarina’s persistent care has only barely made a scratch in Madzie’s silence.

But she can hear the girl laughing madly in the kitchen, can hear her soft voice quietly saying something, her tone shivering with excitement. Alec’s response comes, just as soft and heartachingly steady. She can’t quite hear what they’re talking about, but it’s a comforting rumble of sound that bleeds through the apartment and soothes all the jagged and frayed edges of her nerves.

Magnus is standing silently beside her, and when she turns to look at him, she isn’t at all surprised to find him already surveying the living room. There’s a scattering of Madzie’s favorite toys and a collection of dinosaur figurines that Catarina doesn’t recognize; the coffee table is a veritable mess of glitter and glue and scraps of paper, two finished art projects proudly sitting off to the side. She sees a softness to Magnus’ gaze, a gentleness and warmth that she’s always known was there; they are emotions that have been ruthlessly squandered by his plethora of shitty relationships, by the treacherous cruelty of their world. Catarina knows that there are things Magnus wants out of life – private, silent little wishes that he believes to be futile, things that Camille always ridiculed him for. Quietly, distantly, she wonders if maybe _Alec_ longs for such things as well. Glitter glue on the carpet and sticky childish fingers and sugar-sweet giggles.

But, again, she feels like the open longing in Magnus’ eyes is too bare, like she’s intruding upon some sacred inner sanctum of his heart that she’s never been privy to. She has to look away, or else she fears her heart may just shatter from the weight of all that emotion. Magnus closes the door behind them, and the quiet _snick_ of the latch is just loud enough for Alec to notice their arrival.

Madzie comes bounding out of the kitchen with a call of _‘mommy!’_ that shakes Catarina to the very core. The little girl isn’t wearing her customary scarf, the fabric that has resolutely covered her daughter’s warlock mark since she was forced to harm people with it. It’s the very first thing that Catarina notices, even as she kneels down and accepts Madzie’s hug. Her hair is styled differently, a single French braid instead of the twin braids Catarina had done early, and the girl is also clutching at some stuffed animal that Catarina has never seen before, what looks to be a brilliant purple something or other. She doesn’t get a good enough look before Madzie is leaving her arms to be scooped up by Magnus.

“What have you got there, sweet pea?” he wonders, pointing at the purple shark clutched in the girl’s hands.

“This is Sharkie,” she introduces, holding the creature aloft in front of Magnus’ face. “She has gills just like me!” Madzie announces proudly, craning her neck and flaring her warlock mark in a display that Catarina has never seen from her.

She wiggles until Magnus finally places her back on the ground, and then scampers off only to return with a different blue shark, complementary to her own. “And this is Alec’s shark!” she explains, showing it to Catarina. “Alec took me to the aquarium and all of the fishes had gills and Alec said I should be proud of my gills!” the girl rattles all of this off in quick succession, before bounding back off to play some game in the living room.

Catarina looks up in time to see the shadowhunter in question coming out of the kitchen. He’s wearing a simple pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, his feet bare and a streak of flour across his cheek. Magnus greets him by looping his arms around the younger man’s waist and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. Alec leans into the embrace and it’s so terribly domestic that Catarina has to hide her smile by looking away. A part of her can’t even believe the sight: _her_ Magnus Bane, who had a habit of going on massive drinking binges every few decades until he was blackout drunk, who once threw a nonstop party that lasted seven months, who has accomplished more networking at orgies and swinger parties than most people do in the corporate world, that very Magnus Bane acting so incredibly sappy and in love that it might very well make her heart give out.

The other part of her wonders what took him so long.

 “Hey, _pececito_ ,” Alec calls, and Madzie scampers over. “Why don’t you pick up all your toys, alright?” he suggests, receiving a smile and nod before she acquiesces.

She watches the young girl run about the living room, gathering up toys and snapping her fingers to clean up the messes she made. Catarina steps closer to Alec and offers him the warmest smile she has to date. “You’re very good with her,” she mentions, watching the brilliant red flush that creeps down the boy’s neck. One of his arms is looped over Magnus’ shoulders, but his free hand scratches at the back of his neck bashfully. “I’ve barely been able to get her to show her gills. I don’t know how you managed it.”

“She _really_ liked the aquarium,” Alec shrugs helplessly.

Catarina hums. “I think it was a good deal more than the aquarium,” she states. “Any chance you’ll be available to babysit more often?”

A smile tugs at his lips, an answering one curling on Magnus’ face, and Catarina finds herself easing into a form of comfort that she never expected to around a shadowhunter. “I’d like that, Catarina,” Alec decided, voice soft and gentle and profound.

“Alec!” Madzie calls, slamming into the boy’s legs with a single-minded dedication. “Can mommy and I take some cookies back with us?”

The towering shadowhunter kneels down closer to her height. “Hmm,” he taps his finger against his chin, jokingly seeming to deliberate. “I think I may have already wrapped up a plate for you and your mom to take home,” he admits, a boyish grin curling at his lips.

Madzie lets out a shout of joy before rushing into the kitchen with all of the energy children always have. Catarina can’t help but let out an aggrieved groan. She won’t be able to say no to Madzie if she asks to have a few cookies before bed, and that means she’ll be stuck with a sugar-crazed four-year-old.

As if sensing her concerns, Alec sends her a secretive little wink as he straightens back up. “Sugar-free,” he offers in explanation. “Shadowhunters are health freaks. _Everything_ is sugar-free.”

“Ugh,” Magnus groans with a wrinkle of his nose. “Now _that_ is an absolute travesty, darling. We’ll have to get some good desert into you.”

“Oh, like that ridiculous quadruple chocolate cake you like so much?” Alec retaliates. “Warlocks may be immortal, but that thing is going to give you diabetes soon enough.”

Catarina is content to stand back and watch Magnus interact with this wonderful man he’s found. They’ve been dating for not even a year yet and they already bicker like an old married couple; she’s excited to see what happens the further they get into their relationship. Magnus has always had shit taste in significant others, and she’s glad to see that Alec Lightwood has finally broken that mold.

Madzie demands another hug from Alec, and he picks her up and spins her around. The girl then promptly decides that Alec will be in charge of watching her from now on, and that’s that. The shadowhunter doesn’t even bother to try and deny her.

After they finally get her to release Alec – with a strict promise that he’ll keep his blue shark (graciously named Gilmore) with him for company – Catarina pulls Magnus aside and shares a private little grin with her longtime friend. She bumps his shoulder with her own. “I think you’ve found yourself a keeper,” she murmurs, just for his ears.

The blindingly sweet smile that erupts onto his face is proof for her own statement. Catarina comes to an abrupt decision that, yes, Alec Lightwood is good with kids. And, just maybe, he’s good with Magnus, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madzie!!! Our favorite little sorceress!
> 
> I actually wrote this before the Valentine's Day sneak peek of Malec babysitting Madzie came out, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that (for once) canon fits perfectly with my own view of something. Madzie loves the aquarium and she loves playing Sharks and Minnows with her Uncle Alec.
> 
> Pececito is Spanish for "little fish" (according to Google) and that is absolutely the nickname that Alec uses for Madzie.
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support! Please leave me a comment and some kudos!
> 
> ~PNGuin


	5. Simon

**V. Simon**

 

He doesn’t have the faintest idea of who decided that it would be a good idea to leave _him_ – of all people – in charge of a child. It’s a miracle that he’s managed to take care of himself. And, honestly, he knows there’s plenty of people who would argue that he _hasn’t_ even accomplished that much. His only pet – a hamster when he was twelve – escaped his cage within the first month of his stay at the Lewis household; they found his poor little desiccated body weeks later, wedged between his dresser and the wall. Not to mention, in the first year of his legal adulthood, he’s somehow gotten wrapped up in a secret ‘angels vs. demons’ war, died, and then came back as a _vampire_ , of all things. And then he ended up draining innocent little rats for blood when he was still attempting to navigate his new fang-tastic lifestyle.

So, admittedly, Simon absolutely does _not_ have a good track record with taking care of living things. Not even a decent track record. In fact, it’s quite overwhelmingly _bad_. He has no clue how anyone could even delude themselves enough to believe otherwise. Maybe his mother has finally cracked; he’ll have to call his Bubbie Helen, and his aunt Melissa, and his uncle Isaac. Let them all know that Elaine Lewis has forfeited all rights to sanity, because she’s knowingly left him in charge of his twelve-year-old cousin.

Tobias Steinberg. The grumpy and foul-tempered son of his sometimes-estranged, sometimes-not Aunt Heather. Every family has at least one crazy member, and for Simon’s family it’s Heather, the youngest of his mother’s siblings. She’s had four husbands in the span of fifteen years, has lost and regained custody of her one kid a few times already, and has been caught sticking her fingers in a few too many drug pies the past decade.

According to Simon’s ever-forgiving grandmother, Aunt Heather is finally getting clean. New job, no drugs, no fifth husband, the whole shebang. She’s at an interview now, hopefully to be employed as some receptionist at a fancy hotel. Bubbie is still in the hospital following her stroke scare, and Aunt Melissa and Uncle Isaac both live outside of the state, and Simon’s mom has to work late, and Rebecca is swamped with her classes and two jobs.

So, here Simon is, alone with some scowling preteen boy who seems more intent on glaring daggers than making any sort of connection with his older cousin. Simon never really spent much time with the kid, not even when he was younger and family reunions were still a thing. All he remembers is how, when he was twelve and Tobias was six, the little kid went through Simon’s collection of action figures and ripped all of the heads off, and then proceeded to tear the boyband posters off of his sister’s walls. His mom cut Aunt Heather off some time after that. They haven’t spoken in six years.

It’s not as if Simon absolutely despises the kid. After all, he’s encountered far worse circumstances the past year than some bratty child. Being murdered by crazy vampires and then getting dragged into battles against demons are a little more significant than having the heads ripped off of his action figures. If anything, he’s always felt kind of bad for Tobias. The kid’s gone through step-fathers like most people go through shoes, his mom is a bit of a nutcase, and he’s never seemed to have anyone rooting him on. Simon and Rebecca may not have had a father for the majority of their childhood, but their mother has never been anything less than fully loving and supportive.

But Simon’s theoretical compassion can only go so far, and Tobias seems intent on absolutely destroying every ounce of patience he might have. The brat has been under Simon’s watch for only two hours and already he’s made a mess of everything. The kitchen is destroyed, the living room has been torn apart, the bathrooms and the bedrooms are disastrous, and Simon doesn’t even know how all of that happened.

He’s currently hiding in the living room, curled up on the couch and mourning the state of the destroyed game console bits littered on the floor. That old GameCube has been in his family since 2002. They’ll have to have some sort of funeral for it. Simon thinks it’s a bit ridiculous how upset he is about it, considering that it’s hardly the worst he’s faced in his life, but it’s the _principle_ of the matter.

It was after the GameCube casualty that Simon, frustrated and annoyed and hopelessly terrible with misbehaving preteens, was forced to call in reinforcements. Maia had an older brother growing up, meaning that she’s in the same boat as Simon; both of them are the youngest children and have never had to deal with the particular issues that come with younger siblings. But she’s also part of a large werewolf pack that bickers and wrestles like the most wretched of brothers and sisters and she doesn’t take shit from anyone. So Simon begged his girlfriend to come and help manage the non-demonic but still monstrous child he had so haphazardly been put in charge of.

She has about as much experience with kids as Simon does – as in, absolutely _none_. But where Simon is terrified of confrontation and prefers to just step back and let things go to shit, Maia very much does _not_ mind taking charge of a terrible situation. Maybe it’s a little cruel to sick a pissed off Maia onto some unsuspecting twelve-year-old. But maybe the kid deserves it, just a bit, and Simon is hardly going to intervene _now_.

He can hear the shouts of Maia and Tobias in the kitchen. They’re having some sort of screaming match, and something that sounds suspiciously like glass shattering rings out in the middle of their argument. Simon feels like a child waiting for his parents to quit yelling while he hides under a blanket. Eventually, the shouting cuts off and he hears the swinging of the door that separates the kitchen and the living room.

Maia collapses on the couch beside him with a growl that is more on the wolfy side than human. He peeks a look at her over the lip of his blanket and sees the tension that coils in her body. Her muscles are bunched, her face set in a furious scowl, her jaw clenched, her eyes a wolfish green. The sight of her so angry has his undead heart thumping out phantom beats in his chest and, if he still had blood circulating his veins, he’s sure that a blush would be coloring his cheeks and neck.

“I hate that brat,” Maia snaps, balling her hands into fists and forcing a deep breath down. “I had to walk away just to stop from wolfing out on him,” she mutters.

“Yeah, he has that effect on people. Maybe even on non-werewolves,” Simon agrees, shuffling over so that Maia can rest her head on his shoulder.

She huffs out the most aggrieved sigh he’s ever heard from her. Which is saying a lot, because he’s seen her interact with _Jace_ and that always inspires such a reaction as well. Simon thinks that maybe – just _maybe_ – Tobias is a bit more obnoxious than the blond shadowhunter.

“We’re going to need backup,” Maia decides. “Call in the cavalry.”

“Who could we possibly call?” he groans back. “My mom and sister are busy, Luke is at work, and pretty much everyone else we know is better at slicing up demons than caring for any kids. We’re doomed and no one in the world can save us! The brat is going to burn down the house and then I’m going to have to change my name and move to Mexico. I’ll have to feed on livestock and I’ll become the local Chupacabra! I’ll be Simoncabra!”

“We’ll have to save that for later. Right now, our current adventure is dealing with a terrible, bratty twelve-year-old,” she reminds him, bursting his bubble of hope.

“Ugh,” he groans, falling back against the couch and wishing he could just sink into nothingness. “Who is going to help us?”

Maia is already pulling out her phone and scrolling through her contacts. “Alec,” she answers, even as he hears the ringing of the call connecting.

“Alec?” Simon splutters. “As in Alec Lightwood? What’s he going to do? Scowl the kid into submission? Make him wet his pants? Kid might be terrible, but not even he deserves that!”

“Calm down. Alec is good with kids. Luke told me how he helped with a newly turned kid. Apparently, he did a pretty good job,” she says nonchalantly, as if she hasn’t just completely stomped over all of Simon’s preconceived notions of the world. Alec Lightwood? Good with children? What has the world come to?

But it does remind Simon of a story Clary had told him months ago, of Alec holding a baby while on patrol. He hadn’t believed his best friend at the time, had accused demon poison of seeping into her brain and making her go crazy. Maybe he should have put more stock in her outrageous tale.

“Wait…why do you even have his number?”

“We get drinks and bitch about people sometimes,” Maia shrugs.

“Since when?”

But he never gets an answer, because at that moment Alec picks up the phone with a deceptively brusque _‘yeah, Roberts.’_ Maia has the phone on speaker, and his voice is enough to have Simon trying to sink deeper into the couch cushions. Alec has the distinct ability to make Simon feel like some dumb kid; just like Ms. Pierce from fourth grade, who always glared at children down the length of her hooked nose. He half-expects Alec to snap at him for his terrible cursive writing and then send him to go pull a tag for misbehaving.

“Hey, Lightwood,” the werewolf greets, a smile curling at her lips even as her tone remains outwardly curt. “I’m here with Simon and we need to ask a favor of you,” she continues, holding the phone aloft between the two of them.

Maia turns expectantly towards him, but all Simon can do is stutter out an oh-so-elegant _‘uhm.’_ He clears his throat and imagines the epic eyeroll that Alec is no doubt performing on the other end of the call. There’s another crash from the kitchen and all he can do is pray that it isn’t any of his mother’s prized possessions. It’s finally enough to kick his ass into gear.

“You’re good with kids, right? I’ve been told that you’re good with kids, and I have an angsty twelve-year-old tearing my house apart and I don’t know why my mom thought it would be a good idea to leave me in charge of him and I figured that maybe you could come and out-angst him or scowl him into submission or something? You seem like you’d be pretty good at that,” he rambles out in a single breath before Maia lays a placating hand on his arm and he sucks in a lungful of air.

Alec is quiet for a few drawn out moments. Simon can hear the faint rustling of paper on the other end; he wonders if they interrupted Alec right in the middle of ultra-important Clave paperwork. _“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,”_ the shadowhunter decides before promptly hanging up.

“Woah, okay. I didn’t expect that to actually work. I figured he’d just hang up or something,” Simon admits.

“Nah, Alec’s a good guy, once you’re not on his shit-list,” Maia laughs.

“Kinda figured I still _was_ on his shit-list,” he grumbles under his breath.

But, regardless of whether Simon is on the list or not, Alec shows up in exactly fifteen minutes. He raps on the door – a curt, succinct three knocks – and Simon flings it open already spouting out profuse gratitude.

“Dude, you have no idea how much I appreciate it. Have I told you how awesome you are lately? Because you totally are, and I have no clue how I’m going to repay you. I’ll have my mom make a batch of her famous triple chocolate chip brownies. I swear they’re like crack, but I promise they’re not like _actually_ drugged or anything-”

“Simon,” Alec snaps out, giving him that withering glare that he’s all too used to. “Shut. Up. That’s all the payment I need,” he mutters, stepping into the house and surveying the disaster area. “Although I won’t say no to brownies,” the shadowhunter adds. “The kid do all this?” he nods to the destroyed game consoles and suspicious stains on the curtains.

“Yeah, the kid is an absolute monster,” Maia states, stepping up to greet Alec with a quick hug that leaves Simon’s eyes bugging out of his head. “He’s in the kitchen, probably destroying more shit.”

“Alright, how about you guys go get some lunch or something. I’ll deal with him,” the older man explains, heading to the kitchen and completely ignoring them.

Maia just _rolls_ with it, as if Alec Lightwood storming into Simon’s mom’s house and taking over babysitting duties for some bratty preteen is an everyday occurrence. Admittedly, Simon’s brain is still more stuck on the image of the surly shadowhunter willingly letting Maia hug him, and then _hugging back_.

“Did you just hug Alec Lightwood? Like, _the_ Alec Lightwood? The same one that threatens to gut me just for looking at him?” Simon asks in bewilderment, stumbling along beside Maia as his girlfriend drags him out of the house and down the street. “Are we just going to leave him here with the kid? What if they burn the place down?”

“Just let Alec work his weird kid-whispering magic or whatever,” Maia says. “I’m hungry for some pizza. Have you drank anything lately?”

Simon feels like his head is spinning around quickly enough that it’s going to fall off. It’s like when he and Clary first got wrapped up in the whole Shadow World mess, when he ended up dying and being turned into a vampire. Nothing seems to make sense anymore, but he decides to just try and shrug it off and go with the flow. Maybe things will work out alright?

* * *

They return over an hour later and Simon is really hoping that Alec isn’t angry at him for the delay. The house is still standing, all in one piece and free of visible scorch marks, so Simon supposes that things didn’t go nearly as terribly as he expected. When they hop up the front steps and open the door, it’s to the familiar sounds of video games and the not-so-familiar sounds of chuckling. He looks around the living room and is surprised to see that everything is perfectly back in order, maybe even more pristine than his mom can ever seem to keep it. The weird stains are gone from the curtains, the little bits of destroyed game console are miraculously reassembled, and there no longer seems to be any suspicious smells drifting in from the kitchen.

In the middle of it all, sitting cross-legged on the floor with fluffy blankets tossed over them, Alec and the twelve-year-old terror are engrossed in a game of _Super Smash Bros. Melee_. His little cousin seems to be winning, judging by the kid’s smug grin and Alec’s resulting grumble of _‘if I had a real sword, this wouldn’t be a problem.’_ Simon doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything but a nasty scowl on Tobias’ face, let alone on Alec’s, and he’s pretty certain that he’s somehow ended up in an alternate reality, like that time Clary and Jace went to a different dimension.

“How did you manage to fix the GameCube?” is what his brain manages to sputter out.

Tobias shrugs, far more invested in defeating Alec’s character and sending him flying off-screen. “Alec’s sparkly boyfriend fixed it,” the boy says distractedly.

“Hey,” Alec protests, “my sparkly boyfriend has a _name_.”

Said sparkly boyfriend wanders out of the kitchen and into the living room, greeting Maia and Simon with a short wave. “Oddly enough, I’m quite okay with that nickname,” he remarks lightly before gracefully settling himself on the carpet beside Alec, close enough that the warlock can lean his head on the shadowhunter’s shoulder.

The movement is just enough to jostle Alec’s grip on the controller and Alec gives Magnus a quick little side-eye and _pouts_. Simon thinks his head is going to explode. “Babe, are you trying to sabotage me?” he wonders petulantly.

“Darling, you are a wonderful archer and swordfighter, but I do not even need to sabotage your attempts at video games,” Magnus retaliates with a laugh, softening the blow with a chaste kiss to Alec’s cheek.

As if to prove the point, at that moment the game declares Tobias the winner, the kid having managed to keep all of his lives against Alec’s feeble attempts. The kid cries out in victory and the shadowhunter crosses his arm and glares at the TV as if personally attacked by it. But then Simon sees a grin curl at Alec’s lips, easy and soft and quiet, and the man turns to face Simon’s not-so-monstrous cousin.

“Alright, Toby, you know what your reward is,” Alec prompts.

The comment sobers the boy immediately, and he’s back to scowling just like Simon is used to seeing. But it doesn’t hold a candle to the expectant eyebrow raise that Alec gives him back. It’s a look that reminds Simon uncomfortably of Maryse Lightwood’s patented _‘you better get your act together’_ eyebrow raise that he’s glimpsed on occasion, except it’s softer around the edges, warmer in a way that Simon has never expected from _Alec_. He recognizes the look as the same one that Alec gives Izzy when the girl has a bit too much to drink, or whenever Clary makes a foolish mistake during a mission, or when Jace gets himself hurt for some dumbass reason.

Tobias – Toby? – huffs out a reluctant sigh and stares at the floor, but he obediently drags himself to his feet and shuffles over to stand in front of his older cousin. Simon has to gather every ounce of his courage to not step away from the kid.

“I’m sorry for being rude and for making a mess,” the boy states, and while it’s obviously a scripted apology, it’s more than Simon has ever expected from the kid. “I promise that it won’t happen again, and I’ll behave better from now on.” Toby glances back over his shoulder, seeking some sort of reassurance. He receives it in the form of matching thumbs-up from Alec and Magnus.

Simon’s brain shuts down and reboots before he can stumble over his words. “Uh, yeah, good. That’s great, Toby. Thank you for apologizing. And, um, I’m glad you’ve decided to act better?” he tries. For some unfathomable reason, he glances at Magnus and Alec over the kid’s head, only to receive an unimpressed eyeroll from the shadowhunter and an iffy shake of the hand from the warlock. He doesn’t know why the disappointment bothers him as much as it does.

The two climb to their feet and, even though they are literally in the most mundane setting – his mother’s living room, for God’s sake – Simon can’t help the way his poor undead little heart beats in his chest harder at the sight of New York’s Shadow World power couple. He wonders if maybe that’s what _gay panic_ feels like. Surely, it’s a completely natural response to Magnus Bane and Alec Lightwood. Simon doesn’t think even the straightest straight dude to ever live could escape it.

“Well, Tobias, it was a pleasure to meet you,” Magnus states in that regal way he always has about him, as if this single conversation with a twelve-year-old boy is the most important he has ever had. “Do try to remember what we talked about, and don’t let the world keep you down. You’re a bright, compassionate kid and don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise,” the warlock instructs.

Toby looks crestfallen, and the unexpected expression is enough to make Simon’s heart ache from it. He’s never seen such a look on his little cousin’s face. “You guys are leaving?” the boy realizes.

Alec reaches over and ruffles the kid’s already messy hair. The action strikes Simon for the familiarity of it; it’s so impossibly easy for him to imagine Alec doing the same to his youngest brother that he almost can’t believe he’s never imagined it before. “You have my number, Toby. If those boys give you more trouble, or if you ever need to talk, you can call me,” the typically intimidating shadowhunter assures patiently.

The kid nods eagerly, head bobbing and sending his curls wildly about his head. Just when it seems like Toby is about to dissolve into tears, he launches himself forward and throws his arms around Alec’s waist. The shadowhunter catches him with an ease that belies his own status as a big brother. He runs a soothing hand down the boy’s back and the touch is so gentle that Simon has to look away; it feels too much like he’s intruding upon something tender and private, and he tries his best to block out the sounds of Toby’s sobs muffled against Alec’s stomach.

When he dares to glance back up, he sees the towering shadowhunter crouched down below the boy’s height. “You’re not alone, Toby,” Alec insists quietly. “And you’re strong enough to get through whatever the world has to throw at you, even if you don’t always believe that. Keep your chin up and don’t ever lose hope.”

Alec waits until the boy’s back straightens with a newfound resolve, the strength of steel that Simon personally thinks no twelve-year-old should ever have to need. But clearly the kid lives a life where he _does_ need it, and Simon is just glad that someone showed him it was _there_. The shadowhunter pulls Toby into another hug before reluctantly standing up and saying farewell to the boy. Magnus leads him out, Simon and Maia tagging along behind them until the four are standing on the front stoop of the house.

“How the _hell_ did you manage that?” Maia all but demands once the door is safely shut behind them.

Alec shrugs as if it’s no big deal, even as Magnus’ lips curl with the proudest and fondest smile Simon has ever seen. “If you think Toby is a bad kid, then you should’ve seen _Jace_ when we first adopted him,” Alec comments dryly.

“Jace was worse than that?” Simon asks.

“He shaved part of Izzy’s head, tore all of Max’s favorite books up, and set my bed on fire,” Alec explains, blunt and blasé as if that’s just standard fare for child-rearing. Maybe it is for shadowhunters. “And that was just the first month.”

Simon whistles. He doesn’t even think he’s really all that surprised anymore. “Well, he’s definitely improved?”

“Yeah, we’ve at least gotten him house-trained now,” the shadowhunter responds with a grin, earning himself a startled snort from Maia.

“Now, Sheldon,” Magnus begins, “we expect payment in full. Preferably within the week, or else I’ll have to charge interest rates.”

“How do you expect to charge interest on brownies?” Alec argues.

“Obviously, with _more_ brownies. Let me haggle, dear, I’m trying to get us more delicious homemade desserts out of this,” Magnus mutters back.

“You know what, I’ll have my mom make as many batches as you guys want,” Simon assures quickly. “Name your price!”

Magnus’ eyes light up with a terrifying amount of glee, but it’s Alec’s exasperated _‘don’t even think about, Magnus,’_ that really makes Maia laugh.

“The one batch will be enough,” Alec decides, taking Magnus’ hand and tugging the pouting warlock down the steps. “See you both around,” he calls over his shoulder.

As they walk away, Simon can’t help but watch the couple. Magnus’ pants make his ass look _great_ and have Alec’s shoulders always been so _broad_? Simon thinks maybe he could swoon, and isn’t that a really weird thought. Definitely weird, right? Or is that normal? Simon needs a point of reference here.

Once the two finally disappear out of sight, Maia lets out a low wolf-whistle. “God damn but those two are so fucking hot,” she states.

Simon thinks that maybe he should be a little offended by how easily his own girlfriend admits it, but even if he _were_ entirely straight he doesn’t think he could possibly argue against the assessment. “Right? I think my brain melts whenever I’m near them,” he agrees.

Maia laughs and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “Now, what do you say we go ruthlessly destroy a twelve-year-old in a round of _Super Smash Bros_?”

“Babe, you really do know the way to a guy’s heart.”

When they go inside, Toby is all geared up for the next round. Simon wins, but his little cousin manages to smile at him nevertheless, and all Simon can think about is how grateful he is that Alec and Magnus managed to reach the poor kid before the world won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Maia are both bi and absolutely no one can convince me otherwise. In fact, all of the characters in Shadowhunters are gay. That's just how it is. I don't make the rules, I just enforce them. Also, Simon and Maia are my spirit animals (and I'm lowkey pissed that they aren't endgame). And Maia and Alec are my brotp. Both of them need a friend to drink and bitch with.
> 
> Here's to all the twelve-year-olds out there that have/had a shitty life and needed a Magnus and Alec to tell them they were stronger then they believed.
> 
> One more chapter! I'm planning on posting it Monday before season 3B (finally) premieres, so keep your eyes peeled!
> 
> Please leave a comment and a kudos, and thank you for reading!
> 
> ~PNGuin


	6. Maryse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, we come to our conclusion.

**+I. Maryse**

 

Years ago, in the miserable time of her youth and her foolish rebellion, she had never expected to find happiness. She had tried – oh how she had tried – with the Circle, with her career, with Robert. She had come intimately close when Alec had been born, and later when Izzy and Max and Jace had joined their family. So impossibly close, and yet she had ruined her own chances at happiness by pushing her dear children away. Each harsh word, each cruel punishment, each emotionally distant retort lashed at her heart. A constant ache that will never leave her, that she will never deserve being freed from.

The regret and the shame of her actions still burn at the back of her throat. She doesn’t think she’ll ever forgive herself; there are too many mistakes twisting her past. Valentine, the Circle, her failure as a mother. Maryse has long since determined that she will live every day for the rest of her life with the intent of repentance. Angels curse her if she cannot give kindness as readily as she once gave cruelty.

Such times are in the past. She knows this, with a visceral awareness and a desperate joy. But she has learned – often painfully and reluctantly, on her behalf – that the past is not something to be forgotten. Forgotten means repeated. And the actions and beliefs of her past are not worth bearing repetition.

Laughter draws her out of the vacuum of her thoughts and she agreeably turns her attention to happier thoughts. It’s a beautiful summer day, the mid-June sun beating down but tempered by a breeze that helps to wick the sweat off of her neck. Her hair is up in a _messy bun_ and there’s a thin coverlet over her swimsuit and her bare feet show off toenails painted with a multitude of mismatched colors. Once upon a time, she would have preferred being mauled to death by a _ravener_ demon over appearing as she does now.

Maryse of the past was a _fool_. Maryse of the present knows that now, recognizes it, reminds herself of it every day, and keeps trying harder.

The patio furniture she’s lounging on is comfortably shaded and easy finger foods such as sandwiches and fruits are set out on a table nearby, kept chilled even in the heat with magic charms. Maybe she’ll get up sometime soon and let herself indulge with another few chocolate-covered strawberries. She breathes in deeply, closing her eyes and leaning back. Beside her, she can hear the pleasant rumble of Luke’s voice – her own personal victory – as he chats with Maia. Their voices wash over her, soothing in their familiarity and invigorating in the easy peace that she hears.

She doesn’t have to open her eyes to know where everyone else is. Clary and Izzy are taking advantage of the kids’ playground situated in the further back corner of the yard, swinging along like the schoolgirls they were never allowed to be. Jace and Simon are seated at the little bar off to the side, bickering about something or other as they so often do.

Maryse has spent enough time at that same swing set, that same built-in bar, that she can easily envision them in her head. A little ways from the playground is a garden, diligently cared for and filled with an endearing combination of mundane fruits and vegetables and rare plants with magical properties. She plans on coming over tomorrow morning, in the cooler dawn hours, and helping pick blackberries; perhaps they will make a homemade pie, or perhaps they will just snack on the berries until their lips and fingers are stained.

Across the suspiciously – arguably even _magically_ – large yard is the pool, where she herself had spent a decent time splashing in until just recently. At the other end of the patio, there’s a set of French doors – painted a charming yellow color this week – that she knows leads into a quaint but beautifully restored Victorian home, complete with weapon racks by the front door and an apothecary downstairs and stains from three rambunctious children that not even a thorough warlock cleaning can fully remove.

 _The Lightwood-Bane Manor_ , their ragtag family fondly calls it. A charming home in Ditmas Park, just a mere fifteen-minute walk from Prospect Park and nestled snuggly in a tree-lined mundane neighborhood. There are enough wards around the property to render the home one of the most well-protected places in the entire world; but it is not the multitude of protections that have Maryse feeling so relaxed and at ease. Rather, it is the very essence of _love_ that pervades every inch of the home which creates such peace.

It is a sanctuary, a monument, a refuge from the horrors of the world. There is no terror, no hatred, no cruelty that has stained these walls, that has bled out and seeped into the very ground of the property. Nothing but love and hope and joy, almost as if it’s the fully-actualized version of all those tacky house decorations she sees in mundane stores. It pervades the very air around her, suffusing her with such warmth that not even the summer heat can compare, and it sinks into her bones like a living thing. On her darker days, the home is a stark contrast to the harsh household she herself had once attempted to build, a sharp reminder of all the ways she failed as a mother. On her lighter days, it is a gentle encouragement to continue being a better grandmother.

A dip in the patio couch beside her has her eyes opening. She turns, already with a grin curling at her lips, as her dear son-in-law holds out a glass of ice water for her. Maryse accepts it with easy gratitude and the two lean back to survey their beloved little family around them. She almost wants to laugh at the picture they must paint: an ex-shadowhunter who somehow went from Circle heretic, to Clave soldier, to _finally_ become an adoring grandmother, and a centuries-old warlock who had built up a reputation for hedonism and promiscuity only to settle down with his cherished husband and adopt a bunch of kids.

If someone had told Maryse that one day she would be _here_ , reclining beside _Magnus Bane_ and loving him as dearly as she loves her own children, she would have sent them straight to the Gard. Now, however, she has learned. She contemplates the man beside her, ruminating on how she could have once been so utterly _wrong_ about him. He’s changed a good deal since their first unfortunate meeting during Maryse’s Circle years; back then, he had been all dark and foreboding in his presence, untouchable, unfathomable. Now, his glamor is gone and his makeup, although always stunningly immaculate, is softer at the edges, as is his clothing; he doesn’t wear nearly as much jewelry – dangling necklaces are hardly a good style choice around grabby toddler hands – but the centerpiece of his adornments is the golden ring on the fourth finger of his left hand.

She’s looking at Magnus, but the warlock doesn’t even bother to notice. He’s too focused on throwing heart-eyes in the direction of the pool. A joyous shout of _‘daddy!’_ has her own attention turning to watch the same scene. And there he is. Her pride and joy. The love of an immortal’s life. She remembers the day he was born: premature at only thirty-one weeks, at 5:17 in the morning, 17.4 inches, 3 pounds and 5 ounces. He had been so tiny and helpless and she had feared that he wouldn’t make it. She had spent nearly every second with him for those first few weeks in the infant intensive care unit, holding him to her bare chest with the fervent hope that his heartbeat and breathing would steady.

Alec tosses one of his own children into the pool with a wonderfully carefree laugh. He isn’t that same newborn anymore. Nor is he the toddler who used to cry whenever Maryse tried to put him down, or the five-year-old who always had crayons or dinosaur figurines in his hands, or the surly adolescent boy who scowled at everything, or the isolated teenager who hid away from the world. He’s an adult now, glorious in his confidence and compassion, open-hearted and open-minded, a loving husband and father. Alec is everything a mother could wish for, but none of it is from her own parenting. It’s all him.

Gus – the eldest of her grandchildren, a wonderfully charming shadowhunter boy with curly hair and a cheeky grin – resurfaces in the water, bobbing along as he clumsily treads water, and lets out a whoop of laughter. Still on the edge of the pool, Alec’s lips curl into a grin that nearly matches his son’s, regardless of not being biologically related. Beside his legs, Teddy lifts up his arms, the gentle blue of his skin a brilliant contrast to the vibrant red of his floaties, and begs to be similarly tossed like his brother.

Alec happily relents, even though he’s been doing this nearly nonstop for the past two hours and she can see the tiredness in his shoulders. It’s different from the tension and exhaustion she’s used to seeing from him, from the years of war and hatred and world-ending disasters. The fatigue of playing with his children is nothing like the scars that still linger on his back and shoulders and stomach from the life she hadn’t been able to protect him from.

Teddy goes into the water and comes back up with a high-pitched giggle. Before Alec can take a break, the youngest (and easily the most troublesome) of the Lightwood-Bane clan patters up and “pushes” the back of Alec’s legs. With absolutely no hesitation – and a distinct flare of dramatics that he surely picked up from Magnus – Alec allows himself to tip over and collapse into the pool. He falls with just enough exaggerated flailing that it has all three Lightwood-Bane children erupting into contagious giggling. As soon as their father resurfaces, Pippa leaps into his waiting arms with a squeal of delight.

Maryse lets out a quiet chuckle at the endearing sight. Her heart is warm enough that she thinks it may melt out of her very chest. She had once pushed Alec to always train harder, so that one day he might bear the weight of some unknown trial; at the time, she had believed that trial to be restoring the Lightwood name through servitude to the Clave. He _has_ restored the family name, to the point that it is more highly regarded than perhaps all of their family history. The strength of Alec’s shoulders had never been there to bear the weight of the Clave’s oppression, but rather to lift the Clave up, to lead unprecedented social reform, to right all of the wrongs that the Clave denied. And, most importantly, to give piggyback rides to three plucky little children.

The slap of bare feet against stone and the laughter of mischievous kids is all the warning Maryse gets before her beloved grandchildren scamper up to where she and Magnus are seated. Gus is easily the fastest, all curly hair and dimples, with Teddy just a step behind him, beautiful blue eyes soft and playful. Behind them, Pippa is attempting to follow after her brothers, Alec dutifully slowing to the girl’s pace and keeping a hand poised at her back in case the over-ambitious toddler takes a tumble. The little seelie girl has only just recently started walking and for all her improvement, she has yet to match her brothers in running capabilities.

“Papa!” Gus crows, just before he and his little brother reach Magnus. The two boys clamber unceremoniously onto their father’s lap, seeming perfectly content as they lean against his chest. It is only a quick stirring of the warlock’s magic that saves his outfit from two rambunctious and soaking wet kids, but Maryse knows he would never hesitate to hold his children for the sake of clothing.

They’re still so young, Maryse thinks. Young enough that all three of the Lightwood-Bane children can squeeze onto one of their fathers’ laps relatively comfortably. Gus has just recently turned eight and Teddy is only six, still so small, still so young, still just children. All Maryse can think about is how, when her own children had been of such an age, she had deemed them _too old_ to be held. She remembers how Alec had shied back as if he had been slapped, how Izzy had screamed and cried her way through a tantrum, how Max had simply turned away and faded from her grasp. Maryse had foolishly believed the rhetoric of the Clave, that a coddled child made for an ineffective soldier at best, and a dependent nuisance at worst.

Thankfully, Alec and Magnus have not made the same mistake as she. In the six years since they first adopted Teddy, she doesn’t think she’s ever seen either of them refuse their children comfort or cuddling. The two fathers have become absolutely exceptional at doing tasks one-handed, always with one kid or another clinging to them. When they had first taken in Pippa, the girl had screamed bloody murder if she hadn’t been in Magnus’ or Alec’s arms, and Maryse distinctly remembers how Alec had spent nearly a full three weeks commanding the Institute with the seelie child perpetually perched on his hip.

Young Maryse Lightwood would have scolded the girl. She once had to Alec, when he had been dubbed _too clingy_ by their society. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to forgive herself for the way Alec had sobbed and reached for her, and how she had smacked his hands away.

She can’t change the past. No matter how much she wants to.

All she can do is sit back and bask in the warmth of this wonderful little family that her eldest son has created. She listens to Gus’ incessant chatter, she lets the excitable sparks of Teddy’s magic wash over her skin, she grins at the sound of Pippa’s giggling. She watches her son and her son-in-law and thanks the angels for all of the love and compassion and kindness within them that the world had not been able to beat down and destroy.

Most nephilim believe in destiny, or some convoluted form of it. Shadowhunters are destined to fight and die in the never-ending war against demons; those of a higher status are destined to be leaders, to guide others down the path of war and glory and victory. In her years of ignorance and cruelty, Maryse had thought similarly. Both the Truebloods and the Lightwoods are some of the oldest shadowhunter families around, and her eldest son had been set to inherit the thousands of years of bigotry and racism and hatred. In Maryse’s eyes, her precious Alec had been destined to live up to such expectations.

But Alec had never conceded to expectations. Oh, he had tried. All his life, he had tried. To be the son, the brother, the soldier, the warrior, the leader, the weapon, the tool that their society – that _she_ – had demanded of him. He had always appeared to fall into line – particularly compared to his more outspoken siblings – but looking back on it, Maryse can see all of the silent rebellions. Quiet, reserved, but no less profound for their impact.

Male shadowhunters are not often much involved in child-rearing, a standard that Robert had certainly held himself to. And one that even Maryse herself had fallen prey to. But even at only four and a half, Alec had already been more invested in the wellbeing of his newborn sister than his father had. _Alec_ had often changed diapers, _Alec_ had bathed his younger siblings, _Alec_ had read bedtime stories and started cooking dinner and provided comfort and safeguarded the emotional and mental health of his beloved siblings. He has always cared for those who need it, and Maryse supposes that his adherence to downworlders’ rights had been the next logical step.

Alec has spent his life far surpassing the pressures forced upon him. He has seen himself as often falling short, but Maryse and all of those around him know the truth. He is a devoted son, an adoring older brother, a compassionate friend, an unrivaled warrior, a highly-respected leader, a genuine and earnest man. Maryse is convinced that all of these accomplishments are destiny, that regardless of the struggles it took to reach them, Alec had always been headed for this outcome. But, if such destinies exist, then Maryse knows that the commendable list of achievements is merely secondary.

Alec Lightwood-Bane’s first and best destiny has always been _this_ : a loving husband to an equally amazing man, a loving father to three precious children who light up the world. _This_ is the life that her son has always deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've said it before and I'll say it again: I LOVE writing Maryse Lightwood.
> 
> Also, about the Lightwood-Bane kiddos: the two older boys are very much inspired by Rafael and Max. However, neither Raphael nor Max Lightwood have died in the show, and there's no reason for Magnus and Alec to name their kids after people who are still alive and well. So, the kids needed new names. We've got Agustin (Gus), Theodore (Teddy), and my own addition of Philippa (Pippa).
> 
> Thank you all very much for reading and I hope you all enjoyed this final chapter! Please leave me a comment and kudos!
> 
> ~PNGuin


End file.
